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San Francisco. California 


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Illustrated Magazine 

For Young Folks 



Part I., November, 1889, to April, 1890. 



Copyright, 1890, by The Century Co. 

The De Vinne Press. 




Six Months — November, 1889, to April, 1890. 


■ f 

> Tudor Jetiks 473 


Agassiz Association, The Harlan H. BallarJ 94 

Ann Lizy's Patchwork Mary E. Wllkins 44 

Armadillo Hunt, An. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) Walter B. Barrows 353 

Autumn Revel, An. Poem. (Illustrated by O. Beck) Ida Warii,-r Van der Voort. . 176 

Ballad of King Henry of Castile, The. Poem. (Illustrated by Childe ( 


Bertha's D£but. (Illustrated by Rose Mueller Sprague) £lia IF. Peattic 217 

Blue-eyed Mary. Verse Mary E. Wilkins 21 

" Bluenose " Vendetta, A. (Illustrated by I. R. Wiles) Charles G. D. Roberts 332 

Boyhood of Thackeray, The. (Illustrated) Anne Thackeray Rilehie. . . 99 

Boys and Girls of China, The. (Illustrated) Van Phoii Lee 362 

Brownies in the Studio, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the .Author) Painter Cox 271 

Buffalo-hunting. (Illustrated by Frederic Remington and C. T. Hill) .... Theodore Roosevelt 136 

Bunny Stories, The. (Illustrated by Culmer Barnes) John H. Je^vett 530 

By-and-by. Verse. (Illustrated and engrossed by R. B. Birch) Eva L. Ogden. 153 

Charles. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) Laura E. Richards 270 

Child and the Pyramid, The. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Julian Hawthorne 14 

Chinese Giant, The. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Ruth Dana Draper 484 

Chopsticks, How to Use a Pair of. (Illustrated from photographs) Eliza Ruhamah Scidmorc . . . 535 

Christmas Day', For. Poem. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) //. Butlerworth 186 

Christ.mas Letter, A. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson .... 113 

Christmas o.n the " Polly." Verse. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Grace F. Coolidge 246 

Christmas, The Month Before Mary V. Worstell 89 

Clever Peter and the Ogress. Verse. (Illustrated and engrossed by \ 

the Author) .' \ ^""""-'"^ ^J* 358 

Constant Reader, A. Picture, drawn by Mary Hallock Foote 86 

Coursing with Greyhounds in Southern California. (Illustrated by 

R. B. Birch) 

Cricket, The. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson ... 57 

Crowded Out o' Crofield. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) William O. Stoddard. . . .24S, 340, 

436, 510 

Crowfoot, Old Chief. (Illustrated by A. J. Goodman, from a photograph) .Julian Ralph 328 

Crows' Military Drill, The. ( Illustrated by H. Sandham) Agnes p'raser Sandham 377 

CusTis, George and Nellie. (Illustrated) Margaret J. Preston 395 

Daisy's Calendar Daisy F. Barry ...... . . 185 

Daniel Boone and the Indian. Pictures. , 534 

Design for Decoration of a Window. Picture, drawn by Isabel McDougal 255 

Dogs, Some Asiatic Thomas Stevens . 314 

Dorothy Dot's Thanksgiving Party. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Ada M. Trotter 22 

Dreams. Poem 5'. Walter Norris 151 

Drop-kick, The. (Illustrated by I. R. Wiles) W. T. Bull 237 

Ducking of Goody Grill, The. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) Alice Maude Ewell 407 

Elephants, The King of the. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) C. F. Holder 527 

Elf Song. Poem Samuel Minturn Peck 327 

Enchanted Mesa, The. (Illustrated by W. L. Metcalf, H. M. Eaton, and \ 

from a photograph) \ ^^""-'" ^- ^'""'"" -°7 

" Euchred ! " Picture, drawn by J. G. Francis 519 

Every-day Bacteria Prof. F. D. Chester 350 

February. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle 337 

\ C. F. Holder 3 



Fifteen Minutes with a Cyclone. (Illustrated by T. Moran and W. Taber) . j)/. Louise Ford 429 

Fools' Waltz, The. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Helen Tliayer Hukheson. . . . 226 

For Christmas Day. Poem. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) H. Butlenmrlh 186 

Friends or Foes ? A Play Elbridge S. Brooks 419 

From Thebes. Picture, drawn by E. A. Cleveland Coxe 454 

George and Nellie Custis. (Illustrated) Margaret J. Preston 395 

Greedy. Verse Sydney Dnyre 357 

Hai'PY Charity Children. Picture, drawn by Rose Mueller Sprague 152 

Helen Th.\yer Hutcheson. (Illustrated from a photograph) 231 

Horse, A Story of a. (Illustrated by Frederic Remington) Capt. C. A. Curtis 27 

How Bessie Wrote a Letter Edith G. Seran 319 

How the Emperor Goes. Verse. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) M. Helen Lovett 173 

How to Use a Pair of Chopsticks. (Illustrated from photographs) Eliza Ruhamah SciJinore . . 535 

Hutcheson, Helen Thayer. (Illustrated from a photograph) 231 

Iceberg, The Story of the. Poem. (Illustrated by T. Moran) Harriet Prescott Sfofford 129 

If the Babes Were the Bards. Verse. (Illustrated by .Mbertine Randall > 

Wheelan) \ ^'"'"'"^ '^''"''''" '83 

" I 'LI. Wait for You. Come on ! " Picture, drawn by Mary Hallock Foote 161 

Imperious Yawn, The. Verse Henry Moore 381 

Intercollegiate Foot-ball in America. (Illustrated by I. R. Wiles, \ 

H. A. Ogden, and from photographs) \^n alter Camp. . . 36, 166, 24 1, 321 

In the Tenement. Verse. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Malcolm Douglas 221 

Jack's Cure. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) Susan Curtis RedfielJ 382 

January. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle 224 

Jingle, A. (Illustrated by Alberline Randall Wheelan) Francis Randall 308 

Jingles 258, 308, 521 

Jokers of the Menagerie. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) John Russell Coryell 71 

King Henry of Castile, The Ballad of. Poem. (Illustrated by Childe > 

Hassam) \ ^ "'^''- ■^"'''' 473 

King in Egypt, A. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Helen Thayer Hutcheson . . . 230 

King of the Elephants, The. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) C. F. Holder 527 

Kittie's Best Friend. (Illustrated) M. Helen Lozett 77 

Lady Jane. (Illustrated by A. C. Redwood) Mrs. C. V. Jamison 492 

Last Cricket, The. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson ... 113 

Launching of a War-ship, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Julian O. Davidson 338 

Little Alvilda. (Illustrated by Rose Mueller Sprague) Hjalmar //. Boyesen 130 

Little Button wood Man, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Helen P. Strong 267 

Little Dutchess, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Laura E. Richards 326 

Little Gnome, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) iMura E. Richards 87 

March. Poem. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Katharine Pyle 405 

Marjorie and her P.vpa. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch after designs by the > , 

^^jj^^^. ^ •' S ■ ' Fletcher. ... 522 

May Bartlett's Stepmother. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) JVora Perry 144, 198, 301 

Mistaken Scientist, The. Pictures, drawn by E. W. Kemble 353 

Month Before Christmas, The Mary V. Worstcll 89 

Morning Melody, A. Poem Mary Bradley 336 

Mother Nature's B.\bes in the Wood E. M. Harding 450 

New-fashioned Christmas, A. Verse. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Julie M. Lippmann 265 

Nor.\Y and the Ark Harry Stillwell Edwards . . . 433 

Off for Slumberland. Poem Caroline Erans 418 

Old Chief Crowfoot. (Illustrated by A. J. Goodman, from a photograph ).y?//!<7» Ralph 328 

Old Doll, An. (Illustrated) Margaret IV. Bisland 426 

On a Mountain Trail. (Illustrated by W. Taber) Harry Perry Robinson 371 

Osman Pasha at Bucharest. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) HeUn Thayer Hutcheson . 228 

Ostrich-ranch in the United St.^tes, An. (Illustrated by W. Taber,/ , ^. ,, „. 

.. , , , . .■ Anna Etchberg King. .... 261 

and from photgraphs) \ " ° 

OVENBIRD, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Ernest E. Thompson 520 

Over the Wall. Poem Anna H. Branch 86 

Packet of Letters, A. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author^ Oliver Herford 502 

/ Hjalmar H. Boyesen l6 



PiCMC ON THE Stairs, A. (Illustrated by Mary Hallock Foote) 258 

Pictures 86, 152, 161, 255, 275, 353, 447, 454, 504, 519, 534 

Pilot-boat "Torching" by Night. (Illustrated by the Author) Julian O. Davidson 256 

Poem Postponed, A. Jingle ^ IlcUn C. H'aldin 521 

Poet of the Hempstead Centennial, The. (IlJ^rated by Harper Pen- 

Prairie Prelude, A. Poem Ka/c M. Clcary 537 

Precious Tool-chest, A Erncsl Ingdrsoll ... 505 

Prince and the Brewer's Son, The. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Elizabeth Batch 50 

Professor and the Patagonian Giant, The. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell). Tudor Jenks 161 

Pueblo Rabbit-hunt, A. (Illustrated by W. Taber and F. S. Dellenbaugh). C/Mr/cj /". Lumntis 9 

Quite a Singer. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Malcolm Douglas 376 

Rabbit-hunt, A Pueblo. (Illustrated by W". Taber and F. S. Dellenbaugh) , CharU-s F. Lummis 9 

Race for Life, A. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) .Emma IV. Demeiitt 68 

Race with .\ Wooden Shoe, A. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Frederick E. Partington .... 80 

Routine of the Republic, The Edmund Alton 233 

Samoa, The Story of the Great Storm at. (Illustrated by J. O. David- > 

son, G. W. Edwards, and from photographs) \ ' ' ° ^ 

Schoolmates. Poem Alice Maude Ewell 331 

Scientific Experiment, A . . . . Sophie Swett 58 

Screech-owl, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Ernest E. Thompson 432 

Seven Little Indian Stars. Poem Sarah M. B. Piatt 406 

Shadow-bird and his Shadow. Poem Sarah M. B. Piatt 335 

Sir Rat. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Oliver Ilerford 65 

Six Years in the Wilds of Central Africa. (Illustrated by E. W. > 

Kemble, E. J. Glave, W. Taber, and Otto Bacher) \^E. J. Glave 459 

Some Asiatic Dogs , Thomas Stevens 314 

Song of the Snowflakes. Poem John P'ance Cheney 309 

.Starfish, A. Verse Caroline Evans 509 

Story of a Horse, A. (Illustrated by Frederic Remington) Capt. C. A. Curtis 27 

Story of the Great Storm at Samoa, The. (Illustrated by J. O. David- \ 

son, G. W. Edwards, and from photographs) \ •^'''"' ^' ^"""'"ff 283 

Story of the Iceberg, The. Poem. (Illustrated by T. Moran) Harriet Prescott Spofford . . . . 129 

Thackeray, The Boyhood of. (Illustrated)' Anne Thackeray Ritchie. . . 99 

" The Idea of Calling This Spring ! " Picture, drawn by W. Taber .... 504 

"Thereby Hangs a Tail." (Illustrated by the Author) Harper Pennington 448 

"There once w.« a Man with a Sneeze." Jingle. (Illustrated by R. \ 

B. Birch) \ 258 

Through the Back Ages. First Paper Teresa C. Crofton 490 

To-day in a Garden. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Helen Thayer Hutcheson. . . . 225 

Toddling Island. Poem Edith M. Thomas 352 

Touch of Nature, A. Verse Anna F. Burnham 363 

Tracked by a Panther. (Illustrated by W. Taber) Charles C. D. Roberts 213 

Two Ways of Having a Good Time Frances E. Willard 348 

Valentine for Allis, A. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson . . . 313 

Visit to John's Camp, A. (Illustrated by the Author) A/ary Hallock Foote 479 

Wf.ll-filled Chimney, A. (Illustrated by A. B. Davies) Mabel Loomis Todd 222 

White and the Red, The. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Alice Maude Eiocll 114 

Why Corn Pops. (Illustrated by the Author) Harry A. Doty 74 

Winter Apples. Poem - .Hattie IVhilney 76 

Winter Costumes. (Illustrated by the Designer) Rose Mueller Sprague 446 

••r ^ „ . ,,., ,, S Mark Twain and } 

Wonderful Pair of Slippers, A. (Illustrated) i fi ' r r r / ( 3°9 

Yule-log's Song, The. Poem. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) Harriet Prescott Spofford. . . 195 


" In Full Cry," by R. B. Birch, facing Title-page of Volume — " William Makepeace Thackeray," from a bust 
by J. Devile, page 98 — " Ready for a New Year," by F. French, page 194 — "The Adler Plunging Toward the 



Reef," by J. O. Davidson, page 2S2 — " On a Mountain Trail," by W. Taber, page 370 — " A Night on the Congo," 
by E. W. Kemble, page 45S. 

Plays and Music. 

For Christmas Day. (Illustrated) H. Butterworlh 186 

Friends or Foes ? Elbridge S. Brooks 4:9 

Jack-in-the-Pulpit. (Illustrated.) 

Introduction — Jack's Italian Cousin — The Knowing Woodpecker — The Frigate-bird — That Bicycle Path — 
Red Schoolhouse Queries — A Veteran Rose-bush — A Nebraska Show (illustrated), 84; Introduction — The 
Old Year and the New — Stones for Fuel — A City Wanted? — Those Big Pumpkins — A Mississippi Doll — 
The Hildesheim Rose-bush — He Caught a Tartar — Looking Back ^ Excited Brownies (picture), 274 ; Intro- 
duction — The Carpenter Bee — Is the Panther Cowardly? — Why Not Try ? — Rude Courtesy — A Roman 
Feast — How a Boy was Taught to Turn Out his Toes^ Blooming, in Latin — A Sprig that Tied Itself Into 
a Knot (illustrated), 360; Introduction — The Frigate-bird — A City Wanted, 538. 

The Letter-box. (Illustrated) 92, 188, 276, 364, 452, 540 

The Riddle-box. (Illustrated) 95, 191, 279, 367, 455, 543 

Editorial Notes 92, 188, 364 




Vol. XVII. 

NOVEMBER, 1889. 

No. I. 



Bv C. F. Holder. 


; I write, a hound, 
faithful and true, is 
looking up into my 
face, her long slen- 
der muzzle resting 
on m)' arm, her 
eyes beaming with 
intelligence. Her 
name is " Mouse," 
and she is a gre\- 
hound known to 
many readers of 
St. Nicholas in 
the San Gabriel 
Valley, in South- 
ern California. She 
is blinking, puffing out her lips, whining, in 
fact, laughing and talking after her fashion ; 
and probably this is what she is trying to say : 
" I am a greyhound. I can outrun any hare in 
Pasadena, and when I was younger and not so 
heavy I could jiuiip up behind my master on 
the horse when the grass and flowers were tall, 
and so look around for a jack-rabbit." 

Mouse does not mention that the horse de- 
cidedly objected to her sharp claws, sometimes 
bucking to throw her oft", and thus has often made 

Copyright, 1889, by The Centi.ry Co. 


it very uncomfortable for her master. She has 
just taken her head from my arm, offended per- 
haps at this breach of confidence, so I must 
continue the storj' without further comment 
from her. 

Mouse is but one of a number of dogs that 
constitute the pack of the Valley Hunt Club of 
Pasadena, Southern California. Most are grey- 
hounds, but there are a few of the fine stag- 
hounds that the famous Landseer loved to paint. 
Some are mouse-colored, like Mouse herself; 
others a tawny hue ; others again mouse and 
white. And in the field together they present a 
fine appearance — long, slender forms, delicate 
limbs, powerful muscles, rat-like tails, deep chests, 
[lointed muzzles, and feet like springy cushions. 
They are quaintly described in the old lines : 

" Headed like a snake. 
Necked like a drake, 
Backed like a beam, 
Sided like a bream. 
Tailed like a rat. 
And footed like a cat." 

\\'hen iireparing for an outing, Mouse and 
Uinah (the latter being her baby, though taller 
than the mother) well know what is to come. 
When riding-crop, gloves, saddle, and bridle 

AH rights reserved. 



appear, they become intensely excited, and in- colored, and one is jet-black. Each a buncli of 
sist upon holding my gloves or the crop, and, springs and nerves, a noble group they make : 

when I mount, leap up against the horse with 
every expression of delight. As we ride out of 
the orange grove, it is a wild and delicious 
morning, such as one can find, in February, 
only in Southern California. Hills, fields, and 
meadows are green, roses are on every side, or- 

Dinah, Silk, Rayraon, Mouse, Fleet, Eclipse, and 
many more. 

The hunt is made up of nearly one hundred 
ladies and gentlemen, lovers of riding and dogs. 
Thirty or more are on horseback, with invited 
guests from all over the county, and the remain- 

anges ghsten on their dark-green trees, the air der in coaches and carriages, who follow the 

is rich with tloral odors and filled with the song 
of birds. Snow is gleaming on the big peaks 
of the Sierra Madres: it is winter there, over 
the tops of the orange trees, but summer down 
here in the valley. No wonder the dogs are 
delighted and the horses need the curb. Ladies 
and gentlemen appear, coming out of side streets 
and bound for the "meet." followed by coaches 
with merry riders, all headed for the mesa at 
the foot of the Sierra Madre range. Now the 
silvery notes of a horn are borne melodiously 
on the wind, and out from the shadow of the 
eucalyptus grove comes the pack of hounds 
from San Marino, one of the beautiful homes 
in the San Gabriel ; a few moments later the 


hunt is together on a lofty hill overlooking the 
surrounding countn,-. Young folks are patting 
and admiring the dogs ; and noble fellows these 
dogs are. .-Vmong them are some great tawny 
leonine creatures, brought from Australia, where 
tliey hunted the kangaroo; others are mouse- 

hunt in this way and at noon meet the riders 
at breakfast in some shaded nook. The horn 
sounds gleefully. The great, high-pointed Mex- 
ican saddles, which the gentlemen use, are looked 
after. Horses champ their musical bits, eager 
to be off, and finally, at the word, the cavalcade 
winds slowly down the hill, spreading out over 
the mesa — a gently rising tract, the slope of 
the mountains, ]5lanted with grape, orange, and 
olive, with intervening spaces of very low brush. 
Two miles or less away, rise the Sierra Madres 
like a huge stone wall, with peaks from four thou- 
sand to eleven thousand feet high ; and along 
their base the hunt proceeds. A few feet in ad- 
vance, mounted on a fiery bronco, is the master 
of the hounds with his 
silver horn. The dogs 
separate and move slow- 
ly ahead, wading now 
through banks of golden 
poppies, wild heliotrope, 
and brown-backed violets. 
Greyhounds do not hunt 
by scent, as foxhounds 
do, but by sight alone; 
so, every now and then 
they stop to look about, 
all the while keeping a 
keen eye ahead. 

Suddenly there is a 
shout, and horses and 
dogs are away. From 
under the very nose of 
Mouse a curious appari- 


tion spnngs up — a nutty 
object of grayish tints. It is the jack-rabbit ! 
For an instant he stands astonished, wondering 
what it is all about, then dashes away like a 
rocket and is followed by the field. Nearly all 
the dogs see him : while those that do not, fol- 
low the others. The horses seem to understand 


the shout and in a moment are off in a wild 
race over the mesa, beating down the flowers 
and throwing clods of earth behind them. 

The "Jack," true to his instincts, makes for 
the low brush in a washout. He seems a streak 
of light disappearing and reappearing here and 
there. The dogs are doing their best, working 
like machines. Watch 
their wonderful running ! 
Even at the terrific pace, 
with ditches, and holes 
dug by gophers, badgers, 
or owls to look out for, 
the action of the beauti- 
ful dogs attracts our at- 
tention. They sweep on 
hke the wind — a kaleido- 
scopic effect of grays and 
yellows, passing and re- 
passing. Now Silk leads, 
then in turn the blue dog 
is ahead. See ! Mouse 
is in the air. Losing 
sight of the game, she 
leaps bodily three feet 
upward o\er the brush, 
looks quickly around, 
catches sight of the flee- 
ing form, and is away 
again. The speed is mar- 
velous ! No race-horse 

great run. Hunters give out ; one or two dogs 
are fagged; but over the green fields and down 
toward the city goes the main body of the hunt. 
The little fellow on the pony has become dis- 
couraged. The pony is breathing hard and his 
brave rider's yellow locks have evidently been 
in contact with the pin-clover. 




•the dog inserts its long nose beneath the hare, and tosses him into the air." 

can keep up with a thoroughbred racing grey- 
hound, yet the field is doing bravely. One Kttle 
boy, though far behind, follows pluckily, his 
short-legged pony struggling sturdily through a 
plowed field. 

The hare has dashed across the washout and 
up a large vine)'ard, around and down a well- 
known road. How they go 1 Four, six, ten 
horses all bunched, and running like the wind — 
a wild, melodious jangle of hoofs, spurs, and bit- 
chains. Up go the dogs suddenly. "Jump!" 
cries the Master of the Hounds warningly, 
turning in his saddle. The hare has stopped 
abrupdy at the edge of a dry ditch and turned at 
a sharp angle. Some of the dogs go over and 
sweep around in great curves, while others break 
off on both sides and are soon following the 
game over the back track. A noble chase it is 1 
Everything favors the hare, and he is making a 

But courage ! what is this ? A shout from 
below, and he sees the Jack, with ears flat, — a 
signal of distress, — coming up the slope ; the 
dogs have turned him again. Off the young rider 
goes over the field, side by side with hare and 
hounds. Soon a big mouse-colored dog darts 
ahead, overtakes the hare, and kills him in- 
stantly. Often the dog inserts its long nose 
beneath the hare, and tosses him into the air. A 
moment later, the entire field is about the catch, 
and the long ears and diminutive brush of this 
farmers' pest decorate the hat of the first lady in 
at the finish. 

Panting dogs and horses and flushed riders are 
grouped about ; owners making excuses for pet 
dogs, and all agreeing that the hare was a most 
extraordinary old fellow, wily and conceited. 
He must have girdled many peach and cherry 
trees in his time, and no one mourns his fate. 


Now the run is discussed, and its good points 
dilated upon ; favorite horses are petted, and 
young men svith suspicious grass stains on 
their coats and trousers are ridiculed. Now- 
one may see a thirsty dog drinking from a can- 
teen which one of the huntsmen has unslung, 
while other dogs await their turn ; others again 
are lying on the cool grass, panting like steam- 
engines, yet very proud of their work. Half an 
hour or more is given for rest, then dogs, horses, 
and riders are ready for another run, and per- 
haps two miles of delightful country is gone 
over before another hare is seen. This time he 
runs for the mountains, and after carrying the 
hunt a mile or more up the slojie, dashes into 
the big canon and is away, while the disap- 
pointed dogs and riders join the coaches and 
carriages at the hunt breakfast, spread on the 
slope among the wild flowers; and here, looking 
down on the lovely valley and the Pacific Ocean 
thirty miles away, the day's sport ends. 

Such is real " hare and hounds " in Southern 
California — an insiiiriting sport, as the natural 
instincts of the greyhounds are given full i)lay, 
and the hare has every advantage, and can only 
be caught if faithfully followed by riding at a 
pace which, for speed and excitement, is never 
equaled, I venture to say, in the Eastern States. 

The greyhound is becoming a popular-dog in 
America, and coursing clubs are being formed 
throughout the country, dogs being imported at 
great expense. In certain regions of Califor- 
nia the hare exists in myriads, and the ranchers 
keep the greyhounds to run them off", so it is nat- 
ural that Californians should believe that they 
have some of the fastest dogs in the country. 
How fast can they run ? A good greyhound 
has been known to run four miles in twelve 
minutes. "Silk" has caught a hare within one 
hundred and fifty feet of the start, and as for 
" Mouse," now fat and heavy, I have run the 
fastest horse I could find against her, and she 
was always just ahead, looking back as if to 
say, " Why don't you come ? " The pace of 
the dogs is illustrated by the fact that two of 
them when running in a vineyard came into col- 
lision; light and slender as the animals were, 
one dog's neck was broken and the other hound 
was seriously injured. 

Coursing is by no means a new sport. Not 

only is it an old English custom, but even in 
the ancient carvings of Thebes we find the 
greyhound. Among the ancients, chasing the 
hare with these dogs was considered a noble 
sport, for the greyhound has an aristocratic 
mien, and is the type of refinement and cul- 
ture among dogs. True coursing differs ma- 
terially from the methods of the hunt described, 




and often degenerates into a sport carried on 
simply for gain. It was first organized as a 
sport by Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, in the time 
of Elizabeth, and the old rules are to some ex- 
tent followed in England to-day. In these, the 
various efforts of the dogs in turning the hare 
count, and numbers of dogs contest, one with 
another, to a finish. In America, coursing clubs 
rarely, if ever, run the dogs in narrow inclosures, 
as it is thought unsportsmanlike not to give the 
hare every advantage. Certainly, such is the 
spirit of the sport in Southern California. 

The hare runs as fast as the dogs, but as he 
lacks their endurance he takes them up slopes 
and over rough country, displaying great cun- 
ning. One hare, which I have chased a number 
of times, invariably ran in a wide circle, finally 
leading the dogs among the rocks and escaping 


in a thick grove. This Httle animal is indebted 
to me for much exercise, and I have no doubt 
he enjoyed the running. The hare being smaller 
and lighter can turn more quickly, and the best 
dog is the one that can most adroitly meet these 
quick changes of direction. The pack is rushing 
along when the hare suddenly turns at a right 
angle ; poor dogs overrun and take a wide turn, 
and before they can recover, the hare is far away. 
Still, a good dog will lose but little. Once my 
dog had almost caught a hare, when the cun- 
ning animal darted to a tree and began to run 
around it in a circle, while I stopped and looked 
on. Mouse could not make the turns so (juickly, 
and apparently soon became dizzy, for, as the 
hare ran off, she came to me very much embar- 
rassed at ni)- laughter. Another time I saw a 
Jack turn suddenly, dodge Mouse's snap at 
him, and dart between her legs and away. 

Master M'Grath, the famous dog of Lord 
Lurgan, was for many years the fastest dog in 
the world, but in making comparisons it should 
be remembered that the English hare is not so 
swift a runner as our Western " jack-rabbit," 
or hare. 

The greyhound, running by sight alone, shows 
remarkable intelligence in following the game, 
leaping into the air, as we have seen, looking 
sharply about, and using its intelligence in a mar- 
velous way. When a hare is caught, he is killed 

instantly and tossed into the air, the other dogs 
recognizing the winner's rights and rarely mak- 
ing an attempt to touch the game after the death. 

Besides being shapely and beautiful, the grey- 
hound has both courage and affection. It will 
run down a deer or wolf as quickly as a hare, 
and is ferocious in its anger -with a large foe. 
My dogs are remarkably affectionate and in- 
telHgent, extremely sensitive to kindness or 
rebuke. The moment the house is opened in 
the morning. Mouse, if not forbidden, rushes 
upstairs, pushes open my door, and greets me 
as if we had been separated for months. Then 
she will dart into my dressing-room and reappear 
with a shoe, or a leggin, if she can find it, and 
jjresent it to me, wagging her tail and saying 
])lainly, " Come, it 's time to be up ; a fine day 
for a run ! " 

No charge of cruelty can be brought against 
coursing where the animal is faithfully followed. 
In shooting rabbits and hares they will often 
escape badly wounded, but death by the hounds 
is instantaneous. 

The death of the hare is not considered an 
important feature, the pleasure being derived 
from watching the movements of the dogs, their 
magnificent bursts of speed, the turns and stops, 
their strategy in a hundred ways, and especially 
from the enjoyment of riding over the finest 
winter country in the world. 

«%?#>/. , ^. 



By C. F. Lummis. 

It is curious how much more we hear of the 
marvelous customs and strange peoples of other 
lands than of those still to be found in our own 
great nation. Almost every schoolboy, for in- 
stance, knows of the Australian boomerang- 
throwers ; but very few people in the East are 
aware that -within the limits of the United States, 
in the portion longest inhabited by Caucasians, 
we have a race of ten thousand aborigines who 
are practically boomerang-throv/ers. It is true 
that they do not achieve the wonderful parabolas 
and curves of the Australians; and, for that 
matter, we are learning that many of the astound- 
ing tales told of the Australian winged club are 
mere fiction. It is true, however, that while the 
Bushmen can not so throw the boomerang that 
it will kill an animal and then return to the 
thrower, they can make it return from a sportive 
throw in the air; and that they can impart to 
it, even in a murderous flight, gyrations which 
seem quite as remarkable as did the curving of a 
base-ball when that " art " was first discovered. 

The Pueblo Indians, who are our American 
boomerang-throwers, attempt no such subdeties. 
Their clubs are of boomerang shape, and can not 
be excelled in deadly accuracy and force by the 
Australian weapon; but they are thrown only 
to kill, and then to lie by the victim till picked 
up. Even without the " return-ball " feature, the 
Vol. XVII.— 2. s 

Pueblo club-throwing is the most wonderful ex- 
hibition of marksmanship and skill within my 
experience — and that includes all kinds of hunt- 
ing for all lands of game on this continent. Under 
the circumstances in which these clubs are used, 
rifles, never so skillfully handled, could not be 
more effective. 

The Pueblos are a peculiar people. Quiet, 
friendly, intelligent, industrious farmers, they 
dwell in quaint villages of neat and comfortable 
adobes, which are a never-failing wonder to the 
intelligent traveler in New Mexico. Their primi- 
tive weapons, of course, gave place long ago to 
modem fire-arms. All have good rifles and six- 
shooters, usually of the best American makes, 
and are expert in the use of them. But there is 
one branch of the chase for which the guns are 
left at home — and that is the rabbit-drive. The 
outfit of each of the throng of hunters out for 
a rabbit-hunt consists merely of three elbow- 
crooked clubs. 

When that forgotten hero, Alvar Nuiiez Cabeza 
de Vaca, beside whose privations and wander- 
ings those of all other explorers seem petty, 
first set foot in the interior of the country now 
called the United States, more than three and a 
half centuries ago, he found the Pueblos already 
using their boomerangs. Returning to Spain 
after his unparalleled journey of nine years on 




foot through an unknown world, Vaca wrote in 
his journal, about 1539 : 

"These Indians were armed with clubs which 
they threw with astonishing precision, and killed 
with them more hares than they could consume. 
There were hares in great abundance. When 
one was seen, the Indians would surround and 
attack him with their clubs, driving him from 
one to another till he was killed." 

Two varieties of rabbits are still wonderfully 
abundant in New Mexico. Many are shot in the 
winter by the Pueblos, casually, but rabbit hunt- 
ing in earnest is confined to the w^arm months, 
generally beginning in May. 

I had lived a long time in the pueblo of Isleta 
before the twelve hundred Indians who are "my 
friends and fellow-citizens " decided upon a rab- 
bit-drive. We had had dances, — strange in sig- 
nificance as in performance, — superb foot-races 
and horse-races and other diversions on the 
holidays of the saints ; but no hunting. One 
day, however, I saw a boy digging a root which 
he whittled into significant shape ; and later in 
the afternoon wrinkled Lorenzo, my next-door 
neighbor, left his burro and his ponderous irri- 
gatmg-hoe outside the door, and stepped into 
my little adobe room with an air of unusual im- 
portance. He seated himself slowly, reached for 
my tobacco and a corn-husk, and rolled a ciga- 
rette with great deliberation ; but all the time 
I could see that he was swelling with important 

" Que hay, compadre ?"* \ asked at last, pass- 
ing him a match. 

" Good news ! Perhaps, to-morrow w-e hunt 
rabbits. There are many on the llano toward 
the Hill of the Wind. This evening you will 
know, if you hear the lombe and the crier." 

Sure enough, just before the sun went do^^•n 
behind the sacred crater, the muflled ^'■pom! 
pom!" of the big drum floated across the plaza 
to me : and soon the Isleta Daily Herald, as I 
might call him, — a tall, deep-chested Pueblo 
with a thunderous voice, — was circulating the 
news. He stalked solemnly through the un- 
certain streets, his great voice rolling out now 
and then in sonorous syllables which might 
have been distinguished at half a mile. A 
convenient newspaper, truly, for a population 
which does not read ! The governor ordered, 
* What is it, friend ? t The mesa of 

he said, a great hunt to-morrow. After mass, 
all those who were to hunt must meet at the 
top of the mal pais iiiesa,\ west of the gardens. 
And Francisco Duran had been chosen Capitaii 
of the hunt. 

At 10 o'clock next morning Juan Rey brought 
me the very laziest horse in the world. Old 
Lorenzo was already astride his pinto burro, with 
three clubs lashed behind the dumpy saddle, and 
in his hand the customary short stick wherewith 
to guide Flojo by whacks on both sides of the 
neck — for burros are not trained to bridles. 

We poked across the level river-bottom, wound 
through the beautiful gardens and orchards, 
splashed across the roily irrigating-ditches, and 
at last, after a short, sharp " tug," stood upon the 
top of the mesa, which with its black lava clifts 
hems the valley on the west. We were early, 
but the arrival of a boy with a spade — to be 
used in evicting such rabbits as might seek their 
burrows — enabled us to beguile the hot hour of 
waiting by digging and eating an aromatic root. 

Presently the hunters came swarming over 
the huge yellow sand-hill to the south, and 
rode toward us in a shifting patch of color the 
units of which danced, revolved, and mingled 
and fell apart like the gay flakes of a kaleido- 
scope. There were a hundred and fifty of 
them, from white-headed men of ninety to 
supple boys of twelve. Their white, flapping 
calzoiidllos,\ red print shirts, maroon leggins 
and moccasins, with the various hues of their 
animals, made a pretty picture against the 
somber background. Most of them rode their 
small but tireless ponies — descended, as are 
all the "native" horses of the plains, from the 
matchless Arab steeds brought from Spain by the 
Cotiquistadores. A few were perched upon solemn 
burros ; and a dozen ambitious young men were 
afoot. Only three besides myself carried fire- 
arms. Just as the crowd neared us, a big jack- 
rabbit leaped up fi-om his nap behind a tiny sage- 
bush, and came loping away toward the cliff". 
The clubs had not yet be.en unlashed from the 
saddles, but handsome Pablo's sLx-shooter rang 
out, and the " American kangaroo," whirling 
half a dozen somersaults from his own inertia, 
lay motionless. 

Five minutes later, we were all huddled to- 
gether on the edge of the clifl", facing to the brown 
the bad land. % Trousers. 


I 1 

rolling uplands westward. In front was the with- 
ered capitally consulting with the other old men. 
Then a few grandsires dismounted and squatted 
upon the ground ; the captain called out a brief 
command in Tegua, and off we went loping in 
two files, making a huge V, whose sides grew 
longer and farther apart as the old men at the 
angle grew smaller and smaller behind us. At 
every hundred yards or so, the rear man of each 
file dropped out of the procession and sat wait- 
ing, his horse's head facing the interior of the V. 

When we had ridden a mile and a half, the 
foremost men of the opposite file were nearly as 
far from us. We could barely see them against 
the side of a long swell. Then a faint shrill call 
from the captain floated across to us, and we 
began to bend our arm of the V inward, the 
others doing the same, till at last the ends of 
the two arms met, and instead of a V we had 
an irregular O, two miles in its longest diameter, 
and marked out on the plain by the dot-like 

Now sharp eyes could detect that, the o\al 
was beginning to shrink inward from the other 
end. The old men were walking toward us ; 
and one after another the sentinels left their posts 
and began to move forward and inward. Sharp 
and shrill their " Hi !-i-i ! " ran along the con- 
tracting circle. Some of the hunters were still 
mounted, some led their horses by the lariat, and 
some turned them loose to follow at will. Sud- 
denly there was a babel of shouts away down 
the line. We who were waiting patiently on our 
little rise at the head of the " surround," saw a 
sudden scurrying at a point in the circle a quar- 
ter of a mile away. The excitement ran along 
the line toward us as waves run along a rope 
when an end is shaken. One after another we 
saw sentinels dashing forward, \\ith uplifted arms. 

" Alll viene! "* called Lorenzo to me, leaping 
from Flojo and running forward with two clubs 
grasped in his left hand, and one brandished 
aloft in the right. The third man to the left 
doubled himself like a jack-knife with the effort 
which sent his c\v^ ssh-shsh-ing 'Cnxow^ the air; 
but the long-eared fugitive had seen him, and 
floundered twenty feet aside in the nick of time. 
Old Lorenzo's arm had been " feinting " back 
and forth as he ran ; and now, on a sudden, the 
curved missile sprang out through the air, rose, 

• There 

settled again, and went skimming along within 
a yard of the ground — a real " daisy-cutter," as 
a ball-player would have called it. The dis- 
tance was full fifty )-ards, and the rabbit was 
going faster than any dog on earth, save the 
fleetest greyhound, could run. It would have 
been an extraordinary shot with a rifle. I was 
opening my mouth to say, " Too far, com- 
padre!" — but before the three words could 
tumble from my tongue, there was a little thud, 
a shrill squeal from out a flurry of dust, and 
seventy-year old Lorenzo was bounding for- 
ward like a boy, only to return, a moment 
later, with a big jack, which he proudly lashed 
behind his saddle. The club had hit the rab- 
bit in the side, and had torn him nearly in two. 

In a few minutes the first round was over, with 
a net result of only three rabbits, and we were 
all huddled together again in a little council of 
war. Then the white-headed chief stepped out 
in front ; and those who had hats removed them, 
and all listened reverently while his still resonant 
voice rose in an earnest prayer to the god of the 
chase to — send us more rabbits ! The old men 
took from secret recesses the quaint little hunt- 
ing-fetich — a stone image of the coyote, most 
successful of hunters — and did it reverence. 

^^ Hai-ko.'" shouted the captain at last, and 
oft" went the divergent lines again, over the ridge 
and down the gentle ten-mile slope toward the 
foot of the Hill of the Wind. At the head of the 
loping horses of each file ran the boys, tireless 
and agile as young deer; and they kept their 
place during the seven hours of the hunt. The 
old men sat as usual in a row, while the long 
human line ran out on either side, tying a senti- 
nel knot in itself at every few rods. The ground 
was now more favorable. The sage and cha- 
parro were taller and more abundant, and where 
the shelter was so good there were sure to be 
rabbits. There is a peculiar fascination in watch- 
ing those long arms as they reach out for the 
"surrounds." When I have a good horse I al- 
ways seek an elevation whence to take in the 
whole inspiring scene, and then gallop back to 
the cordon in time to be "in at the death"; but 
to-day I had to be content if I could keep Bayo 
in the procession at all. But even from the level 
it was a gallant sight, — that long array of far- 
off centaurs skirting the plain, unmistakably 
he comes ! 




Indian in every motion, the free rise and fall of 
the bronco lope, distinguishable even when the 
figures had dwindled to wee specks on the hori- 
zon; and before and beside me swart faces and 
stalwart forms, sweeping on in the whirlwind of 
our hoof-beats. 

The second " surround " was much larger than 
the first, the sentinels having been placed at 
greater intervals. Just as the ends of the three- 
mile circle came together, a gaunt jack sprang from 
the earth at our very feet, and dashed through 
the line before the hunters could even grasp 
their clubs. Ambrosio, a young Apollo in bronze, 
wheeled his big gray like a flash, and dashed in 
pursuit — so quickly, indeed, that I had to throw 
my gun in the air to avoid giving him a dose of 
shot intended for the rabbit; whereupon the 
waggish old ex-governor, Vicente, called out to 
me : " Cuidado .'* Tiiis is not to hunt Cristianos, 
but rabbits ! " 

Ambrosio's mount was one of the fleetest in 
the pueblo, victor in many a hard-fought gallo 
race; and now he went thundering down the 
plain, devouring distance with mighty leaps, and 
plainly glorying in the mad race as much as did 
his rider. Ambrosio sat like a carven statue, save 
that the club poised in his right hand waved to 
and fro tentatively, and his long jet hair streamed 
back ui)on the wind. Todillo had found a foe- 
man worthy of his hoofs. Grandly as his sinewy 
legs launched him across the llano, away ahead 
gleamed that strange animate streak of gray-on- 
white, whose wonderful " pats " seemed never to 
touch the ground. And when the thunderous 
pursuer was gaining, and I could see — for / 
was chasing not the rabbit but the sight — that 
Ambrosio drew back his arm, there came a mar- 
velous flash to the left, and there was the jack, 
flying at right angles to his course of an instant 
before, and now broadside toward us; I say 
" flying," for so it seemed. The eye could 
scarcely be convinced that that astounding ap- 
parition sailing along above the dwarfed brush 
was really a quadruped, forced to gather mo- 
mentum fi-om mother earth like the rest of us. 
It appeared rather some great hawk, skimming 
close to the ground in chase of its scurrying 
prey. Tr)' as I would, my eyes refused to real- 
ize that that motion was not flight but a series 
of incredible bounds. 

There is none of this fascinating illusion about 
the ordinary run of the jack-rabbit; and yet, 
following one in the snow, when he had no more 
pressing pursuer than myself on foot, I have 
measured a jump of twenty-two feet I What one 
can do when pressed to his utmost, I have never 
been able to decide definitely ; but it is much 
more than that. 

Had Todillo been unused to the sport, the 
race would have ended then and there ; but he 
knew rabbits as well as did his master. If he 
could not match — and no other animal ever 
did match — the supreme grace and agility with 
which his provoking little rival had doubled on 
the course, the tremendous convulsion of strength 
with which he swerved and followed was hardly 
less admirable. It seemed as if the efibrt must 
have broken him in twain. 

Again the tall pursuer was gaining on the 
pursued. Fifty feet — forty-eight — forty-five — 
and .*\mbrosio rose high in his stirrups, his long 
arm flashed through the air, and a dark streak 
.shot out 80 swifdy that for an instant the horse 
seemed to have stopped, so easily it outsped 
him. And in the same motion, at the same 
gallop, Ambrosio was swooping low from his 
saddle, so that from our side we could see only 
his left arm and leg ; and in another instant was 
in his seat again, swinging the rabbit triumph- 
antly overhead I 

We galloped back to the " surround," which 
was slowly closing in, and now not a quarter of 
a mile across. The inclosed brush seemed alive 
with rabbits. At least a dozen were dashing 
hither and yon, seeking an avenue of escape. 
One old fellow in the center sat up on his 
haunches, with ears erect, to take in the whole 
situation. But his coolness cost him dear. " Cui- 
dado!" came a yell from across the circle; and 
we sprang aside just before Bautisto's rifle 
flashed, and the too prudent rabbit fell, the 
ball passing through his head and singing shrilly 
by us. 

Now the rabbits began to grow desperate, 
and to try to break through the line at all haz- 
ards. As soon as one was seen bearing down on 
the line, the twenty or thirty nearest men made 
a wild rally toward him. Sometimes he would 
double away, and sometimes try to dodge be- 
tween their very legs. Then what a din of yells 

* Be careful. 


went up ! How the clubs went whizzing like 
giant hail ! Surely in that frantic jam of mad- 
men something besides the rabbit will be killed! 
One of those clubs would brain a man as surely 
as it would crack an egg-shell. But no ! The 
huddle breaks, the yells die out, and the " mad- 
men " are running back to their places, while 
one happy boy is tying a long gray something 
behind his saddle. No one is even limping. 
Not a shin has been cracked — much less a 
head. In all my long acquaintance with the 
Pueblos, I have never known of such a thing as 
one getting hurt even in the most furious melee 
of the rabbit-drive. Strangest of all, there is 
never any dispute about the game. They always 
know which one of that rain of clubs did tlie 
work — though how they know, is beyond m\- 

Yonder is another rush. The first club thrown 
breaks the jack's leg ; and realizing his desperate 
situation, the poor creature dives into the base- 
ment door of his tiny brother, the cotton-tail — 
for the jack never burrows, and never trusts him- 
self in a hole save at the last extremity. Our 
root-digger rushes forward, sticks his spade in 
the hole to mark it, and resumes his clubs. When 
the " surround " is over, he will come back to 
dig eight or ten feet for his sure victim. 

So the afternoon wears on. Each " surround " 


takes a little over half an hour, and each now 
nets the hunters from ten to twenty rabbits — 
mostly jacks, with now and then a fuzzy cotton- 
tail. Once in a while a jack succeeds in slipping 
through the line, and is oft' like the wind. But 
after him are from one to twenty hunters ; and 
when they come back, ten minutes or half an 
hour later, with foaming horses, it is strange, 
indeed, if the fugitive is not danghng at the 
back of one of them. 

On the slope of the crater we strike a 
" bunch " of quail — the beautiful quail of the 
Southwest, with their slate-colored coats and 
dainty, fan-like crests — and not one escapes. 
I have seen the unerring club bring one down 
even from a flock on the wing ! 

The " surrounds " are now making eastward, 
and each one brings us nearer home. It has 
been a good day's work — thirty-five miles of 
hard riding, and fourteen " surrounds " ; and on 
the cantle of every saddle bumps a big mass of 
gray fur. 

The evening shadows grow deeper in the 
cafions of the far-off sandias, chasing the last 
ruddy glow up and up the scarred cliffs. And 
in the soft New Mexican twilight our long 
cavalcade goes ringing down the hard Rio 
Puerco road toward our quaint, green-rimmed 
village beside " the fierce river of the North." 



By Julian Hawthorne. 


Many centuries ago, — as many as there are 
days in the month, — the great King sat beside 
the river Nile in Egypt, and watched the labor 
of a myriad slaves, building the mighty pile of 
his pyramid. And on his strong brown knee, 
playing with a coral rattle with golden bells, sat 
a little child, whom the great King loved be- 
cause of its beauty and gentleness. 

" What is that which they build there with so 
many big stones ? " the child asked. 

"It is my tomb," answered the King. 

" What is a tomb ? " asked the child again. 

" When I have lived my life and am dead," 
said the King, " and my spirit has gone to meet 
Osiris, and be judged by him, — when that time 
comes, the embalmers will take my royal body, 
and cunningly embalm it, so that it can not perish, 
nor decay come near it. Then they will wrap it 
in many wrappings of fine linen steeped in per- 
fumes, and seal it up in an emblazoned mummy- 
case, and they will bear it, in gorgeous procession, 
to yonder tomb. In the midst of the tomb there 
is a secret chamber, hidden from discovery by 
many a wise device; and in the chamber a 
sarcophagus, carven from a single stone." 

" Will they put your body in the sarcophagus?" 
asked the child. 

" Aye, they will lay it there," replied the King. 

" What will they do then ? " the child asked. 

" Then," said the King, " they wdll seal up the 
tomb, and the door of the secret chamber ^vill 
they close with a strong curtain of stone ; and 
they will block up the passage leading to the 
chamber, and conceal the entrance to the pas- 
sage, so that no man can find it. That will 
they do." 

" But why will they do all this ? " asked the 

" Have I not already told you ? " said the 
King. " It is done, that my body may not perish, 
but endure forever." 

"Forever!" said the child. "How long is 
that ? " 

" Nay, that is an idle question," replied the 
King, smiling. " Who can tell how long ? The 
High Priest is a wise man, but even he knows 
not. But see how strongly the pyramid is built, 
its sides lean together and uphold each other ; 
its foundations are in the rock, it can not fall 
to ruins ; when all other works of man have 
vanished from the earth, my pyramid and my 
tomb shall stand." 

" But how long will it stand ? " asked the child. 
"Will it stand a thousand years ? " 

" .\ thousand years ! " cried the King ; " Aye ! 
and more than a thousand ! " 

" Will it stand three thousand years ? " said 
the child. 

" It will stand three thousand years," the King 
answered proudly. 

" Will it stand ten thousand years ? " 

" Ten thousand years ? " repeated the King, 
thoughtfully. " That would be a weary time ! 
Yet, I think it will last ten thousand years." 
But after he had said it, the great King sighed, 
and leaned his head upon his hand. 

Still the child would not be satisfied. "Will 
it last a hundred thousand years ? " it asked. 

Thenthe King bent his brows in anger. "Ques- 
tion me no more ! " he said. " What does a child 
know of rime ? You add centuries to centuries 
with a breath, and think, because a hundred 


thousand years are quickly said, that they will 
pass as quickly. A hundred thousand years ago — 
so the High Priest says — this mighty earth, with 
its seas and lands and mountains, its trees and 
beasts and men, — all these were but as a vapor 
of the air, and as a sleeping man's dream of what 
may come to pass on the morrow. A hundred 
thousand years hence, — who dare look forward 
so far ? To you, that are a foolish child, years 
are but a sound, and a fancy ; but to men, who 
have lived, and striven, and hoped, and sorrowed, 
and suffered, years are harder than adamant, 
stronger than brass, heavier than gold, fatal as 
death. A hundred thousand years ! Child, the 
face of Osiris himself shall be darkened before 
they be passed ! " 

Having thus spoken, the King arose and gave 
the child to its nurse, for his spirit was troubled. 
And the child also was troubled and wept; not 
at the King's words, for it understood them not ; 
but because he had set his foot on the coral 
rattle vrith golden bells, and had crushed it to 

The nurse took the child and carried it to the 
barge on the river Nile ; and the boatmen took 
their oars to row across the river. But it hap- 
pened that, in the middle of the river, the child 
slipped from the nurse's arms and fell into the 
river; and the current caught it, and it was 
drowned. It seemed to the child that it fell 
asleep ; but immediately it was awake again ; 
and opening its eyes, behold ! it was in a world 
glorious with life and beauty, and sweet with 
music and happiness and love. 

" Yes, this is Heaven," said the child to itself; 
and with that it sprang up and went to seek its 
little sister, who had gone to Heaven a little 
while before. 

Soon the child found its sister, where she lay 
sleeping under the shadow of a plane-tree. So, 
remembering that she had been most fond of a 


certain blue flower, with a golden heart and a 
slender stalk, the child gathered a handful of 
these flowers and placed them beside her, where 
she would see them when she awoke. 

Then the perfume of the flowers aroused the 
sleeping sister and she opened her eyes; and 
when she saw the flowers, and her brother 
beside her, she gave a cry of joy; and they 
kissed each other. 

An angel came up to them, and smiled upon 
them, and said, " Come with me, and look upon 
the place of the pyramid of the great King." 

They went with him, putting their hands in his. 
And he brought them to an opening in Heaven, 
below which lay the earth and the place of the 
pyramid, and said, " Look ! " 

They looked through the opening, and saw 
the river Nile, and the bank beside the river, 
where the pyramid of the King was built. But 
the pyramid was no longer there. There was 
only a level tract of sand, and a lizard lying 
dead upon it. 

" Where is the pyramid ? " asked the child. 

" It has perished," replied the angel. 

" How can it have perished so soon ? " asked 
the child. " I was there in the morning, and 
sat on the King's knee, and saw the men build- 
ing. And the King said it would last ten thou- 
sand years." 

" And if he did," said the angel, " are not the 
ten thousand years past, and a hundred thousand 
years added unto them ? " 

" While I have been gathering these flowers ? " 
cried the child. " Then, what are years ? " 

" Years are pain," replied the angel, " but love 
is eternity." 

The child looked in the angel's face. " I 
know you now," he said ; " you are the King." 

But the angel folded the two children in his 
arms ; and there were tears on his face, even in 


By Hjalmar H. Boyesen. 


^VER the stable there 
was a small room which 
was intended for a 
coachman. But as Mr. 
Craig could not afford 
to keep a coachman, 
Henry, his son, took 
possession of the room 
and fitted it up for a 
study. He papered the 
\valls from the floor to the ceiling with pictures 
from the illustrated weeklies, and sat by the hour 
staring at them, making out the most astonishing 
stories. He knew of no more delightful occupation 
than puzzling out the connection between scenes 
and subjects which, by pure accident, had been 
put side by side, and tracing a coherent story, sug- 
gested by the pictures. Thus, for instance, there 
was a wood-cut entitled, "Shine, sir?" represent- 
ing a boot-black hailing a cu.stomer. Henry, for 
the sake of convenience, named him Tom Pratt, 
and began to wonder what were the later events 
of his career. Presently he discovered a figure 
in which he recognized a resemblance to Tom 
Pratt. It was in a picture entitled, " A Scene 
in the Police Court " — evidently the gentleman 
whose boots Tom had blacked had accused him 
of picking his pocket. Tom bravely affirmed his 
innocence ; but the Judge, taking the gentleman's 
word in preference to Tom's, sentenced him to 
three months on the Island. In the right-hand 
upper comer of the wall was a picture of an 
arrest, and Henry had no difficulty in comin- 
cing himself that now, at last, the real thief had 
been found ; and after his confession to the In- 
spector, Tom is released. A large full-page cut 
representing a " Monmouth Park Handicap 
Race " gave the desired clue to the next chapter. 
For there Henr)- found again his friend Tom 
and Mr. Jenks, the gentleman who had falsely 

accused him. Mr. Jenks, stung by his conscience, 
offered to educate Tom, in order to compensate 
him for the wrong he had done him. Scene 
fourth, which is entitled, " Cleared for Action," 
represents the moment before the command is 
given to fire, on board a man-of-war. There 
Henry hails with joy the adventurous Tom, ^\■ho 
has now become a naval cadet and is about to 
distinguish himself in battle. The fifth chapter, 
which is taken from the London " Graphic," ex- 
hibits Tom in the act of being presented in a 
gorgeous uniform to the Czar of Russia. He is 
now an officer, and naturally has changed veiy 
much. You would find it hard to recognize in 
this handsome young fellow, with a mustache 
and shoulder-straps of gold braid, the ragged 
boot-black of Mulberry Street. 

But Henr)', somehow, never fails to recognize 
him. He sits hour after hour, following him with 
breathless interest, from adventure to adventure, 
until finally " .'\ Decoration Day Parade " be- 
comes the culmination of Tom's career. For, to 
Henry's fancy, it represents a parade in his hero's 
honor, when, covered with glory and noble scars, 
he returns to his native country and is met by 
themayor and aldermen of the city, with speeches 
and brass bands and military pomp. 

It was this kind of story Henr}' loved to com- 
pose ; and the same pictures often furnished him 
with incidents for the most different plots. The 
" Scene in the Police Court " played an impor- 
tant part in the careers of no end of heroes, and 
there was not a ragged and disreputable scamp 
in the whole shabby crowd whose life Henry did 
not puzzle out, even to its minutest details. He 
had a warm and charitable heart, and kindly 
helped them out of all their difficulties. There 
was not one of them who would not have been 
a gainer if he could have stepped out of his 
own wretched, vicious life into the happy and 
prosperous lot which Henry provided for him. 

In Hempstead, a little New England village 


where Henry Craig lived, nothing of any conse- 
quence ever happened ; at least so it seemed to 
Henry. It had once been a flourishing town, 
and some of the men most distinguished in our 
colonial and revolutionary historj' had hailed 
from it. But now most of the people were poor, 
and the town had shrunk to 
less than half its former size. 
All the young people seemed 
to think that Hempstead 
was a good place to be bom 
in ; but they always liked 
it best after they had gone 
away. The counrn.- about 
the town was largely set- 
tled with Irish and Scotch 
peasants, who managed to 
make a living out of the 
farms upon which their 
Yankee predecessors had 
barely staved off starvation. 
Henry's father, after having 
struggled vainly to make 
both ends meet, had in dis- 
gust sold his homestead of 
one hundred and eighty 
acres for about one-half 
of what the buildings alone 
were worth ; and now the 
Irishman who had bought 
the farm was not only sup- 
porting a large and cheer- 
fully ragged family upon it. 
but was la\-ing up money. 
And the secret of this Mr. 
Craig soon discovered. The 
Hibernian let his children 
go half naked in summer; 
he bought no books, read 
no newspapers, employed 
no servants; and altogether he had reduced his 
needs below the level of even humble living 
according to the American standard. 

Mr. Craig had many a time regretted that he 
had parted with his ancestral acres. For the 
grocery business wjiich he was conducting in 
town turned out to be in no wise so profitable 
as he had expected, and it was, moreover, con- 
fining, detrimental to his health. He had been 
ambitious to provide his sons with an education 
Vol. XVH.— 3. 


which would enable them to rise in life, and it 
was with a heav\- heart that he finally bade fare- 
well to this cherished dream. Frank, the eldest, 
who, in the father's j udgment, was the cleverest of 
the three, was sent to a neighboring town, where 
he obtained a position as clerk in a drj'-goods 



Store. Anthony, who also was a promising lad, 
helped Mr. Craig in his own business, and Henry, 
the j'oungest, had for a while superintended a 
news-stand, on which he had managed to lose 
three or four dollars every month. Naturally 
his father came to distrust his business ability, 
when Henry repeated this experiment for six 
months in succession. And when, finally, the news- 
stand was abolished, Henry found rich compen- 
sation for his loss, in the stock of illustrated 




papers which were left on his hands and the 
amusement which they afforded him. No end 
of jibes he had to endure in consequence of his 
disastrous business venture, but he bore them 
all with patience. He gradually became recon- 
ciled to the thought that he would never make 
much of a success in business ; but, somehow, it 
gave him no great uneasiness. A trifle shy he 
was in his intercourse with other boys and a little 
over-sensitive. That which interested him above 
all things he dared not confide to any one; for 
he knew that it would afford a fine subject for 
ridicule. Secretly he stole up to his " study " 
every afternoon and regaled himself with the 
imaginary events which befell his imaginary 


When Henry was fourteen years old, his 
father concluded that it was time for him to learn 
a trade whereby he might make his living. But 
all the trades which he jjroijosed seemed equally 
uninviting to the boy. He had lived so long in 
a wonderland of his own, that all the careers 
which actual life presented to a boy in his posi- 
tion seemed poor and paltry by comparison. A 
choice he had to make, however, — there was no 
help for it, — and he chose the trade of a printer, 
chiefly because it was in some way associated with 
the illustrated papers from which he had derived 
so much happiness. Perhaps an opportunity 
would be afforded him to continue his excursions 
into wonderland. Every newspaper had an ex- 
change list, and perhaps he might contrive to 
see the exchanges now and then, in the absence of 
the editor. At all events, a printer Henry Craig 
resolved to be, though in the dim future he saw 
himself crowned with fame and honor, received 
with brass bands, and speaking from platforms 
to vast crowds of people. That he was to be 
something great — he had no idea what — was 
a foregone conclusion, and that his apprentice- 
ship as a printer was to be merely the lowest rung 
in the ladder of fame which he meant to mount, 
seemed also quite probable. It was this vision 
of future glor}' which made him endure the long 
and tedious apprenticeship in the ofiice of the 
" Hempstead Bugle," where he set type day after 
day and night after night, until his finger-tips 
were numb and his back ached. However, 

Mr. Martin, the editor, was a good-natured man, 
who willingly lent him books and occasionally 
spoke an encouraging word to him. But when 
Henry, emboldened by this kindness, offered 
one of his poems for the paper, the editor quite 
changed his tune. 

" Look here, young man," he said, " you are 
getting too smart. Your business, as I under- 
stand it, is to set type, not to furnish copy." 

" This stuff here," he continued scornfully, 
after having read the poem, "is the veriest drivel. 
And then you rhjme room with fume .' If )ou 
don't know better than that, you had better let 
rhyming alone and stick to type-setting." 

Henry felt terribly humiliated by this repri- 
mand, and tried to accept Mr. Martin's ad- 
vice " to let rhyming alone." But somehow he 
found that a more difficult task than he had 
thought it. The rhymes 7vould come into his 
head, however mucli he might try to banish 
them; and though he did not flatter himself 
that they were poetry, he did take pleasure in 
them, and vaguely imagine that perhaps they 
might point the way for him to the glory of 
which he dreamed. 

It happened during the third year of Henry's 
apprenticeship, when he was seventeen years old, 
that great preparations were made for the cele- 
bration of the second centennial of the settlement 
of Hempstead. A prize of one hundred dollars 
was offered for the best poem on the occasion, 
and the competition was thrown open to all 
" poets who were natives of Hempstead, or de- 
scended from Hempstead families." The wor- 
thy selectmen who placed this restriction upon 
the competition had probably no very clear idea 
of what they were doing. It seemed desirable 
to them to encourage home talent, and they 
considered themselves excessively liberal in ad- 
mitting the compositions of non-resident ])oets 
"descended from Hempstead families." 

When Henr)- Craig saw this alluring announce- 
ment in the " Bugle," — he had, in fact, himself set 
it up, but the full meaning of it had not dawned 
upon him until now, — his heart was fired with 
a wild ambition. \\"hat if he jvrote the poem and 
won the one hundred dollars ? It was not so much 
the money which he cared for, — though that, to 
be sure, was an additional inducement, — as the 
triumph over Mr. Martin who had sneered at 




his poetic aspirations. It was not once, but many 
times, since he presented that unfortunate poem, 
that the editor had addressed him as '"the mute, 
inglorious Milton,' " " the viUage Shakspere," etc., 
and asked him sarcastically how his muse was 
thri\ing. Now Henry's opportunit)- had come to 
prove that his talent was genuine, and he meant 
to make the best of it. Eagerly he began to dehe 
into the history of the settlement and the early 
days of the town ; and much interesting material 
did he unearth. He stood at his case, setting 
type automatically, but scarcely knowing what 
he was doing. Sonorous lines hummed in his 
brain, and surreptitiously he jotted them down 
upon pieces of paper. It was on such an occa- 
sion that he was responsible for a misprint which 
caused no end of amusement in the town. In 
an excerpt from a letter recording the travels 
of a local statesman whose pretensions were all 
out of proportion to his merit, he printed, " On 
April 6th, at 2 p. m., the Senator reached the 
summit of the Asinine," instead of " the summit 
of the Apennines." 

He barely escaped discharge in consequence 
of this blunder, and he surely would not have 
escaped if Mr. Martin had known he had been 
composing poetry during his working hours. 


Henry finished his Hempstead Centennial 
Ode in good time and sent it to the judges signed 
with the //('/// cfe plume, " Bunker Hill." Four weeks 
of feverish an>aety followed, during which he 
found it difficult to apply himself to his work. 
He had moments of the wildest exhilaration, 
when he sang to himself and scarcely could keep 
from dancing ; and there were hours of unrest 
and depression during which he seemed to him- 
self a presumptuous fool who would be sure, 
sooner or later, to be covered with ridicule. 
Probably some of the greatest men of New- 
England were trying for that one hundred dol- 
lars; and what chance would a half-educated 
boy have in competing with them ? \\'hen 
he thought of Longfellow and Whittier and 
Lowell, and the idea of his presuming to have 
his callow rhj-mes comjjared with their mature 
and noble verse, his ears burned uncomfortably. 
But then, of course, he did not know that they 

were among the competitors. He ardently 
hojjed that they had in this instance resisted 
the temptation of the hundred dollars. 

The fateful evening arrived at last. The select- 
men, the judges, and as many of the citizens as 
could crowd in, were assembled in the large town- 
hall. It was understood that a number of unsus- 
pected poets who, from regard for the public weal, 
had practiced their art in secret, were sitting with 
palpitating hearts in that audience, distracted by 
hope and fear. There was a rumor, too, that some 
literary celebrity had sent in an ode, but that 
his claim to descent from a Hempstead family 
would not bear examination. Some one who 
professed to know declared, too, that his ode 
would have had no chance anyway, as it did 
not mention a single Hempstead family by name. 
And, as every one knew, the intention was not 
only to celebrate the founders of the town, but 
also to reflect some little glory upon their de- 
scendants of to-day, who had spent their lives 
wearing holes in their honorable names. 

Henry had been on hand early; but, from 
modesty, had taken a seat in the middle aisle, 
not far from the door. The five judges — three 
clergymen, a doctor, and a lawyer — came march- 
ing up the aisle, two by two, with the odd lawyer 
bringing up the rear. Henry gazed into their 
faces with earnest scrutiny, but could discover 
nothing which warranted him in entertaining 
any hope. They looked absolutely non-commit- 
tal. Very likely they had given the prize, without 
knowing it, to Longfellow or Lowell ; for with 
the fictitious names there was no possibility of 
knowing whom they had favored. 

Henry gave himself up to despair. He felt 
so unutterably small and foolish. It was well 
nobody knew that he had tried for the prize. 
The eldest clergyman came forward and invoked 
the Divine blessing upon the assembly. 

Then a glee club, from a neighboring college, 
mounted the platform and sang a patriotic song, 
which was enthusiastically encored. The eight 
collegians, who in the meanwhile had descended 
into the audience, were obliged to reassemble, 
and sang now : 

" Said the bull-fiog to tlie owl, 
Oh, what '11 you have to drink ? " 

which aroused even greater enthusiasm. When 
at last quiet was restored, the chairman of the 




committee, a Baptist minister, came forward 
and made an endless speech concerning the 
significance of the occasion, the difliculties with 
which the committee had to contend, etc. He 
possessed, in an eminent degree, the art of say- 

necks, others tossed about uneasily in their seats 
and tried to look unconcerned. 

" I hold in my hand," began the chairman, 
" an — an envelope." 

Nobody had been prepared for so startling an 

ing in twenty words what might be said in two ; announcement. A few snickered ; some laughed 


and when he had finished Henry was so ex- 
hausted that it seemed a matter of slight con- 
sequence to him who had won the prize. His 
interest revived quickly, however, when the 
speaker turned to the legal member of the com- 
mittee and received from him a sealed envelope. 
Excited expectation was expressed in every 
countenance. Some rose up and craned their 

outright. Henry heaved a deep sigh, merely to 
give vent to his agitation. 

" This envelope," the chairman continued, 
impressively, " contains the name of the success- 
ful competitor — the author of the ode which 
will be read at the centennial celebration — a 
week hence. The committee does not as yet 
know his, or her, real name. The name — the 




a/iiis, if I may so express myself — which he lias 
used is — 'Bunker Hill.'" 

The name exploded in Henry's ears like the 
report of a gun. The walls whirled about him. 
The audience swam in a luminous mist. The 
floor billowed under his feet. He clung on to 
the bench in front of him with all his might, so 
as to make sure that he was yet on the solid 

" The gentleman — the lady — or I should 
say — the poet signing himself ' Bunker Hill,' " 
the minister went on, after having broken the 
seal of the envelope, " is — is — that is to say — " 
he hemmed and hawed as if he had difficulty 
in pronouncing the name, "is a gentleman — 
named — Henry Craig." 

A strange hush fell upon the audience. Some 
people thought there must be a mistake. Henry 
Craig — nobody in the town knew any promi- 
nent person of that name. Very likely it must 
be a stranger. Nobody thought of the seven- 
teen-year-old boy who was setting type in the 
" Bugle" office. 

" If Mr. Henry Craig is present in this audi- 
ence," the reverend gentleman proceeded, "will 
he kindly step up on this platform and receive 
his reward ? " 

Then, far back in the hall, a tall and slender 
lad rose with a face pale with excitement: He 
ran his hand nervously through his hair, pulled 
himself together, and walked up the aisle. All 
the people turned about to look at him. When 
he had passed half a dozen benches, he felt a 
pair of eyes keenly riveted upon him. He looked 
up and met Mr. Martin's wondering gaze. Sur- 
prise, pleasure, and also a shadow of doubt were 

written all over the editor's features. But when 
he had convinced himself that there was, indeed, 
no mistake, up he sprang, waved his hat and 
cried, " Three cheers for Henry Craig ! " 

And the audience rose as one man and shouted 
" Hurrah ! " so that the windows of the old town- 
hall rattled and the walls shook. 

Henry never knew how he reached that plat- 
form, received the hundred-dollar bill in an 
envelope, and made his way back to his seat. 
His heart was thumping away like a trip-hammer, 
his blood was throbbing in his temples, and there 
was a mist in his eyes which made all things dim. 
He remembered that the people were thronging 
about him, congratulating him, pressing his 
hands, and a matronly lady kissed him and said: 
" What a pity, my boy, that your mother did not 
live to see this day." 


This was the beginning, but it was by no means 
the end, of Henry Craig's career. In fact, his ca- 
reer is yet at its meridian, and his thousands of 
readers hope he has yet many years of honor- 
able usefulness before him. 

When he had read his ode at the Hempstead 
Centennial, a number of the wealthier citizens 
became convinced that a boy who could write 
so fine a poem at seventeen would, if he was 
properly educated, in time become an honor 
to his native town and State. They therefore 
clubbed together, sent Henry to school, and 
later to Harvard College. He has now won a 
fair fame, and is one of the most promising of the 
younger poets and novehsts of the United States. 


By M. E. Wilkins. 

Single-eyed to child and sunbeam. 
In her httle grass-green gown. 
Prim and sweet and fair as ever. 
Blue-eyed Mary 's come to town. 

Yes, you may, child, go to see her, 
You can stay and play an hour ; 
But be sweet and good and gentle ; 
Blue-eyed Mary is a flower. 

Dorothy Dot 

was singing as 
she hung the 
clothes on the 
" ' ■ line. How the 

wild things tossed and flickered in the light 
breeze ! Dorothy had to laugh at the tangle 
they made of themselves, as she went busily on 
witii her work. And a pretty picture was she 
with her golden curls shining in the early morn- 
ing sunbeams, and her serene, bright face. 

" Dorothy Dot, I 'm awful lonesome ! " cried 
a voice hidden, half-smothered, in the empty 
clothes-basket ; and a small boy clambered out 
of the basket and peeped between the sheets 
blowing in the wind. 

" Come to breakfast then, good little man," 
cried Dorothy, whisking up the basket as she 
started on a run to the cottage, followed closely 
by her little brother, Billy. 

Mr. Protheroe, the father of these children, 
had charge of the light-house on Crab Island. 
He was a faithful, true man, respected by all who 
knew him. As for his wife, sweet woman, serenely 
happy in her isolated home, she seldom visited 
the mainland. To-day, however, repairs needed 
in the bell-buoy, had taken Mr. Protheroe to the 
town on tlie coast, and his wife had accompanied 
him, to make some purchases of warm clothing 
for the children. 

Dorothy had risen to see her parents off at 
four o'clock ; and it was now only six, and here 
was Billy lonesome already for his mother. But 

the light-hearted girl knew it was in her power 
to keep him happy, so she began to sing a merry 
song as she set the bread and milk on the table. 

The small white cottage was built within the 
shadow of the light-house. More than once, dur- 
ing some unusually fierce storm, the family had 
been obliged to take refuge in the stronger build- 
ing, fearing that the cottage might be swept away. 
Behind the light-house, on the southern side of 
the island, was a strip of herbage, green enough 
to satisfy "old Molly," the complacent cow, 
tethered to a post in the center. On either side 
rocks stretched away to the sea. The straggling 
shape of the island broke the force of the waves 
ere they reached the beach on the mainland, so 
that it was seldom difficult to navigate the waters 
of the bay. 

The breakfast was evidently much enjoyed, for 
peals of laughter rippled on the breeze. When 
it was over and the work in the cottage done, 
Dorothy called Billy and went out into the sun- 

What a lovely day ! Certainly Indian Summer 
at last. The light fall of snow of a week before 
had disappeared, and the sun was warm. 

Oh, how happy she felt in this gay sunsJiine ! 
No wonder that her voice rang out in merry 
snatches of song. Suddenly some of the bright- 
ness faded from her face and a thoughtful look 
stole there with somewhat of a shadow. Yes, 
there was one hitherto uru-ealized dream of bliss 
in Dorothy's heart. She did so want to have a 
"Thanksgiving Party." Mother told such lovely 



Stories of parties at tlie old homestead in Ver- 
mont, that, had a fairy godmother appeared to 
Dorothy to ask what gift she most desired in 
the world, the answer would have come at once, 
" Oh, how I should like a Thanksgiving party, 
with real live people, lots and lots of children, 
and games and stories by the firelight ! " She 
had lived all the fifteen years of her life on the 
lonely island. 

" Dorothy Dot ! see how low the tide is. The 
' Old Crab ' is out of water." 

Now the " Old Crab " was a dangerous rock, 
only bare at exceptionally low tides, and it was 
bare that day. There he lay with the one claw 
upraised, the clutch of which had often proved 
disastrous to vessels before the Government had 
placed near it a bell-buoy, to ring unceasing 
notes of warning at the ebb and flow of the tide. 

" Let us go down to the buoy and look for 
sea-mosses," cried Dorothy, as she realized that 
the great rock was out of water. 

The two children climbed actively over the 
rocks. Soon they stood upon the " Old Crab's " 
back, and even danced up and down on his 
massive head. 

" It IS a dangerous rock ! " cried Dorothy, 
seriously, as she looked over the jagged edge. 
Then, climbing up the claw to the broken bell- 
buoy, she continued, " But all the pilots know 
of the ' Crab.' Surely they will avoid it even 
though the buoy is broken." 

" They can't see it in the dark," cried practical 
Billy, as he floated a stranded star-fish in a pool 
in the rocks. 

" But there will be moonlight to-night ; they 
can see the rock quite well. Still I do wish the 
bell would swing." Then she was hidden behind 
the huge claw, and Billy knew she was reach- 
ing to the buoy for the sea-mosses which clung 
to Its sides. Presently she touched the bell and 
made it ring. How loud its voice sounded in 
the stillness! 

Dorothy clambered back to her brother's side, 
and, setting the bucket in the pool, began to 
show him the mosses she had gathered. 

" It 's Thanksgiving to-morrow," said Billy, ir- 
relevantly. " Are n't we going to have chicken- 
pie, Dorothy Dot ? " 

" Of course we are," assented she; "and we '11 
pretend we have a party, — shall we, Billy ? " 

Billy was of a social turn of mind, so he 
nodded. " I want a boy to play with," he said. 
Neither of the children went often to the main- 
land, and of course few visitors ever came to the 
rocky island. 

When dinner-time came, the children ran 
back to the cottage, and Dorothy hastened to 
set the table. 

But, by the time the meal was finished, the 
dazzling blue of the sea had changed to gray. 
" \Miite horses " rode the riotous waves, leaping 
in on the Crab's back, and over the claw, break- 
ing into foam that was blown over the green by 
the wild wind. Overhead, dense cloud-banks 
rose from the horizon to the zenith, and obscured 
the sun; then, drifting on, they were swept wind- 
ward until the sky was covered. Sea-gulls, beat- 
ing against the stiff breeze, flew inland, making 
dismal outcry as they hovered over the light- 
house, or sought shelter among the rocky ledges 

" I don't like this," said Dorothy Dot, as she 
went to the door and glanced anxiously round. 
Then, as no warning note rang from the bell- 
buoy, she scanned the seas for a sail. 

" Oh, I hope no ship will come along to- 
night," she exclaimed. 

" Dorothy, how can Mother get home?" 

" Oh," she replied, serenely, " Father will bring 
her safely. You know the bay will not be rough, 
as the ocean is." 

It grew cold as the warm sun of Indian Sum- 
mer was hidden by the clouds. Dorothy went 
into the cottage, and an hour flew fast as she 
began to mount the sea-mosses. Still she was 
conscious all the time of the rising wind and sea. 
At length she threw a shawl over her head and 
went out. Billy watched her fighting the wind 
as she ran up to the steps of the light-house. 
Then he saw her look anxiously out to sea, and 
he was sure something was wrong when she 
came running back to the cottage. 

" Billy, darling Billy, will you stay here?" she 

Billy jumped from his chair, suspiciously. 

" Not without you, Dorothy Dot. I should 
be lonesome. 1 'm going with you, Dorothy 

And together they ran down to the one 
small sand-beach. 




"Oh, Dorothy Dot!" and "Oh, Billy!" ex- 
claimed the brother and sister, shocked at the 
sight before them. 

For the huge claw of the stony monster had 
once more done deadly work! The leaping waves 
had hid the danger, and the deep seas surround- 
ing the Crab had deceived the pilot, now the 
warning voice of the bell was mute. A ship 
riding on a rising wave had struck, and, with 

" And a baby ! There 's a baby in her arms," 
cried Billy. " And there 's a boy just my size 
there, too." 

The boats one after another were lowered and 
broken to pieces by the jagged rocks. Dorothy 
looked around almost frantic, wondering what 
she could do to help them. Her father would 
have rowed out to the wreck, but — could s/ic, all 
alone ? She saw Billy's eager eye glance toward 


- ■■•:^ 

-; -^■.-^ 


her rudder gone, was helplessly beating shore- 
ward among the jagged rocks. 

" Oh, if Father was only here," cried Dorothy, 
in despair. " They are going to launch the boats, 
and the current there will carry them on the 
rocks as soon as they reach the water. Oh ! oh ! " 

Not only were Dorothy's fears verified by the 
loss of the boat launched, but at this moment 
the ship, plunging wildly, struck again on the 
claw, and was jammed between the head and 
neck of the monster Crab, and for a moment 
was still. 

" Now 's the time," shouted Dorothy, waving 
her arms wildly to attract the attention of the 
crew. " Oh, I see a woman on board ! " 

the boat, high on the beach. With his help she 
could push it down to the water's edge, and per- 
haps Father would soon be home, and then — 

By this time her thoughts had become actions. 
Billy was helping her with the boat. 

" I 'm going with you, Dorothy Dot," said he. 

The boat was now ready to be launched. The 
children stood on the beach, however, waiting to 
see what they could possibly do to help the peo- 
ple in the wrecked ship. Dorothy knew quite 
well that she dared not venture near the currents 
which swept round the Old Crab. 

Just then a sailor appeared on the bulwarks. 
He had a rope tied round his waist, and it was 
evident that he meant to srtim ashore. The chU- 


dren watched him breathlessly for a moment, and 
then they looked at one another as the same 
thought flashed through their minds. For it 
was quite plain, now, what they must do, and 
Dorothy pushed at the boat with all her strength 
as the man's head came above the waves after 
his plunge from the ship. He was a magnificent 
swimmer, she could see, but it was a long dis- 
tance to the shore, and the water was very cold at 
this season. If only she could reach him before 
he became exhausted, fighting with the waves ! 

Billy came splashing into the shallow water, 
but his sister was too quick for him; she pushed 
off, leaving the little fellow dancing with rage on 
the beach. 

" For Billy will be safe, if I don't get back," 
Dorothy was saying to herself as she rowed 
toward the sailor. " Father would wish me to 
do this, I know, as he can not come himself" 

She had seen her father risk his life in the per- 
formance of his duty too often to doubt that he 
would have her also do so. She was not afraid. 
True, she had never taken the boat out alone, 
in such a sea as this, but then she knew every 
rock on the reef — knew, too, where she would 
escape the roughest part of the tide, and how 
best to meet the breakers that unceasingly beat 
against this rock-bound coast. Besides this, she 
was as much at home in a boat as ashore, and 
her father had trained her to row a steady stroke. 
Her chief difficulty lay in the fact that she could 
barely see, over the tossing, swirling waves, 
whether she was steering straight toward the 
sailor, who made his way on by diving through 
some of the breakers, and thus was frequently 
lost to view. Her boat was less manageable, 
too, than it would have been with some one 
astern to keep the balance true. But if she did 
not see the sailor, he was quick to see her, as he 
came up on a wave, and the people on board 
the ship cheered as he struck out more vigor- 
ously than ever in the direction of the boat. 

Dorothy in the boat and the sailor in the water 
together held the lives of the crew in their hands. 
But at the present moment all the girl's anxiety 
was merged in the fear that the man's strength 
would give out before she reached him; and he 
was only afraid that she, a mere child, would lose 
command of the boat as it came further out into 
the heavier breakers. 
Vol. XVn.-4. 


The people clinging to the wreck, who in- 
cluded the captain's wife and children, in addi- 
tion to the crew, watched the boat as it tossed 
up and down, with agonized expectation. Could 
it live in such a sea ? 

Dorothy gave a cry of joy as she saw two brown 
hands suddenly clutch the stern of the boat ; and 
as it rose on the next wave the sailor managed 
to climb in. He was very much exhausted, for 
the water was bitterly cold, and had not the 
boat been opportunely driven near to him, he 
must soon have given up all hope of reaching 
shore alive. 

Dorothy steered for the little sand-beach, 
where poor Billy was still rushing up and down 
in excitement. The waves helped her now, 
though in extremely rough fashion. Presently 
the sailor, recovering his breath, took one oar, 
and in a short time the boat was beached. 

" God bless you, little girl ! " cried the man, 
as he ran up to the rocks with his rope, which he 
pulled tight and fastened securely. Upon it 
another sailor crossed, hand over hand, bearing 
a slighter rope which was fastened to a basket 
on the wreck. In this basket two of the captain's 
children were securely tied, and by means of a 
block and tackle were carried over on the large 
rope in safety. 

Would there still be time to save the mother 
and baby ? The sailors looked doubtfully at the 
huge waves, which reared their mighty crests 
high above the claw, and broke over it upon 
the deck of the vessel. If those waves should 
hft the ship from the rock and set her adrift 
again, all on board must be lost. 

Dorothy thought she would never forget 
those anxious minutes while the woman was 
being brought off in the basket. It seemed as 
if the waves, jealous of losing their prey, strove 
fiercely to outleap one another as they surged 
and foamed angrily round the basket. 

" Oh, she must be drowned, after all," cried 
Dorothy. " Can't we do anything better than 
this ? " 

The men did not answer. Their steady, strong 
arms held the rope and they were drawing the 
basket nearer and nearer. 

A few more minutes of suspense, then a cheer 
rose from the wreck ; the sailors ashore had hold 
of the basket. Dorothy unclasped her hands to 



receive a tiny baby muffled up in wraps. She 
sat down on the beach to peep at it. 

" It is ahve ! " she cried, joyfully. " Oh, I was 
afraid it would be drowned." 

" And the mother 's alive too, but wet to the 
skin. I 'd take 'em in to the fire, if I was you," 
said the sailor. 

But the captain's wife, regardless of her wet 
garments, would not leave the beach until she 
could see her husband safe at her side. 

The crew did not wait to be carried in the 
basket ; they clambered along on the rope, and 
at last only the captain was left on the wreck. 

He seemed to be hunting for something on 
the decks, but finally appeared on the bulwarks 
with a bundle tied upon his breast. 

The delay almost cost him his Hfe, for when 
he was half-way across, the rope parted, as a 
huge billow, hfting the wreck, set it adrift among 
the rocks, at the will of the waves. The sailors 
manned the boat, and pulled toward their cap- 
tain with a will. As he was a strong swimmer, he 
managed to keep up until they arrived to help 
him. His poor wife watched and prayed by 
turns, almost beside herself with anxiety. 

When at length he stood safely at her side, he 
opened the bundle on his breast. Out flew the 
ship's cat, more than indignant at the soaking 
to which she had been subjected, and ungrate- 
fully scratched her kind friend as she wildly 
sprang out of his arms, and rushed away with 
tail held high in air. 

As Dorothy led the way to the cottage, she 
explained that the absence of her father was 
the reason she had taken the boat out alone. 

It was growing dark. The captain pointed to 
the light-house. 

" Give us the keys, daughter. We 'U take 
care of the lamp for him." 

" Oh, Father will be back," she repHed, tran- 
quilly. " He has had to go a long way round 
to avoid the currents, or he would have been 
here long ago." 

The captain and sailors glanced sadly at one 
another; they feared the little maid's father 

would never be able to reach the island ahve, 
in so terrible a sea. 

But five minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Proth- 
eroe came in. Dorothy never knew the deadly 
peril in which her parents had been during that 
half hour. 

Little need to tell of the cordial welcome 
they gave their unexpected guests, or of their 
joy when they found their brave Dorothy had 
done her duty so well. When her father put 
his hand on her head, and said, " You did well, 
my Dot. God bless you ! " she felt happy and, 
gay as a lark, she went singing about her work. 
All the praises and thanks of the guests seemed 
worth nothing in comparison with such rare 
words from her reticent father. Billy too was 
in a gay mood ; he was busy interviewing the 
captain's little boy, but his powers of expression 
were a little modified, as he had screamed him- 
self as hoarse as a heron in the afternoon. 

The gale increased in fur)' during the night, 
and raged throughout Thanksgiving Day. No 
one could get to the mainland, so Dorothy's 
desire for a " real live party " was amply fulfilled. 
After dinner the old folks played games with the 
children, and the captain played Billy's mouth- 
organ so musically that the sailors danced in 
their very best manner. Once or twice Dorothy 
pinched herself to make sure all this was really 
happening : that it was not a dream, nor one 
of mother's lovely stories of the olden days at 
the homestead. 

But no ! The solemn voice of the Storm Spirit 
rang from the ocean. The winds howled ; tlie 
waves broke into cataracts of foam over the 
" Old Crab's " hideous claw, and roared sullenly 
amid the rocky clefts in the gullies. 

Yet, indoors there was the true Thanksgiving 
spirit of cheer. Dorothy Dot, as night drew on, 
sat at her father's feet, the flames from the drift- 
wood fire flashing on her golden curls, her rosy 
cheeks glo^ving with excitement. And as the 
sailors began to spin their wonderful yams, she 
gave a sigh of perfect contentment. 

Happy " Dorothy Dot ! " 


By Captain C. A. Curtis, U. S. A. 


I WAS acting-quartermaster of a command 
composed of two companies, which garrisoned 
a log fort near Prescott, Arizona, during the 
years 1864 and 1865. The fort was an inclosure 
of some three hundred feet square, built of thick 
pine-logs set up vertically in the ground, with 
regular block-house bastions, of the colonial 
period, at diagonal comers; and it had huge 
gates of hewn timber that swung ponderously 
on triple iron hinges. The fort stood on a 
slight elevation overlooking the post corral, a 
structure built of the same material and in the 
same general manner as the fort, but inclosing 
a much larger space. In this corral were gath- 
ered nightly the horses of the cavalry troop, the 
horses and mules of the quartermaster, and the 
three hundred head of cattle and one thousand 
sheep of the commissary. 

The presence of these animals grazing through 
the days on the hill-sides and plains about our 
reservation was a special and alluring tempta- 
tion to the marauding Apaches and Navajos, 
and frequent chases and skirmishes were neces- 
sary in order to protect our stock. 

The garrison consisted of one company of 
regular infantry and one troop of New Mexican 
volunteer cavalry. The men composing the 
troop were, with a few exceptions, Mexicans, 
speaking the Spanish language, and using tactics 
translated into that tongue. 

The troop had arrived in January, after a long 
and fatiguing march of seven hundred miles, 
and two days after their arrival their captain 
had turned over to me sixteen worn-out, broken- 
down, sick, and generally decrepit horses. Ac- 
cording to custom in such cases, I receipted for 
them, and in due time ordered them sold at pub- 
lic auction to the highest bidder. 

On the morning of the day appointed for the 

sale to take place, the fifer of the infantry com- 
pany, a neat Irish soldier, known among his 
comrades as Joe Cain, who acted as my attend- 
ant and a general guardian of my belongings, 
paused in the doorway, and, raising his right 
hand to his cap- visor, asked if he " could spake 
t' the Liftinent ? " As I nodded, he asked : 

" Would the Liftinent like to buy a fine horse ? " 

" No, Cain. I have no use for two horses, 
and I can not afford the expense of another." 

" But you can buy this one for Uttle or noth- 
ing, sor." 

" How much ?" 

" If the Liftinent will let me have five dollars, 
I '11 buy him the bist horse in the post." 

" The best horse in the post for five dollars ! 
What kind of nonsense are you talking, Cain ? " 
and I turned to some papers on my table which 
demanded my signature. But Cain lingered in 
the doorway at a respectful " attention," and 
when I signed the last paper his hand went up 
again to his visor and remained there until I said : 

" Well, what more have you to say ? " 

'■ If the Liftinent will buy the horse I spake of, 
he will niver repint of his bargin. I 've known 
the baste for tin years, sor, — from the time I 
jined as a music b'y at Fort Craig, sor." 

" He must be an exceedingly old horse, then," 
I said. 

"Nobody knows his age, sor; he's a vit- 
eran ; but he 's a fine horse, all the same, sor." 

" But I do not need another horse for my 
duties, Cain, as I told you just now ; and I 
should have to buy his hay and grain, and that 
is an expense I do not care to be put to, with no 
prospect of a profitable return." 

" There nade be no expinse, sor. There is a 
sorplus of forage in the corral, and the forage- 
master '11 let me have all I 'm wantin' if the Lif- 
tinent will jist give him the laste bit of a hint." 

More to please a valued and trustworthy at- 
tendant than with any hope of securing a good 




horse, I gave Cain the desired five dollars. I 
learned, in further conversation, that the won- 
derful steed he proposed to buy for me was one 
of the lot to be sold at auction. 

1 did not attend the sale of the sixteen horses. 
I simply noticed that the Government money 
account had increased seventy-five dollars by 
the auction, showing plainly enough that the 
value of the whole number was a little less 
than five dollars each. A whole month had 
passed, and I had entirely forgotten that I had 
given Cain the five dollars for the purchase of 
a horse, when one day, as I again sat writing 
in my room, I heard the rapid clatter of hoofs 
apjjroaching, and presently noticed that a horse 
had stopped outside. I stepped to the door 
and found Joe Cain awaiting my arrival, hold- 
ing by the halter-strap a fine, large bay horse, 
in good flesh, smooth as satin, and bright-eyed 
as a colt. "Will the Liflinent plaze to come out 
and inspict his horse ? " said Cain ; and then he 
led him about on exhibirion. I was pleased to 
find that the horse, while in no \vise remarkable, 
showed many good points. In fact, the animal 
was a great surprise to me. I sat down on a 
log which had been rejected in the building of 
the fort, and looked long at the metamorphosed 
creature before I spoke. 

" So that is the horse you bought for five dol- 
lars, is it, Cain ? " I began. 

" Four dollars and forty cints, sor. I bought 
the halter with the sixty cints that was lift, sor." 

" But I don't see how such a horse could be 
had for that money. And this is really one of 
those miserable hacks we sold at aucUon ? " 

" Not a bit else, sor," said the delighted 
Cain, his face in a glow from the pleasure he 
was deriving from my wonderment and evident 
approval of the result of his venture. 

" Has he a name ? " 1 asked. 

" ' Two- Bits,' sor." 

"'Two-Bits' — twenty-five cents! — how did 
he get that name, Cain ? " 

" He won it at Fort Craig, sor, in a race in 


In answer to further questions and after some 
irrelevant talk, Cain, having tied the horse to a 
tree, walked slowly backward and forward be- 
fore me, and proceeded to give the history of 
the horse so far as he knew it. and his reasons 

for asking me to make the purchase. When he 
went into the corral one day, he said, he saw 
one of the stable-men kicking and bearing an 
old steed to make him rise to his feet. The 
animal made repeated efforts to stand, but each 
time fell back through weakness. Cain ap- 
proached, and, by certain saddle-marks and a 
peculiar star in the forehead, recognized an old 
acquaintance. He even insisted that the old 
horse knew him. From some knowledge of 
horses, picked up in a stable during a wander- 
ing life before he enlisted, the soldier perceived, 
after a careful examination, that the horse was 
not permanently disabled, but simply suffering 
from ill-treatment and neglect. He began his 
care of the beast at once, and as soon as the 
auction was ordered, he determined to ask me 
to buy him. 

The first knowledge Cain had of Two-Bits, 
was that the horse belonged to the Mounted 
Rifles and was with them at Fort Craig in New 
Mexico, in 1859. On Fourth of July of that 
year, the officers of the fort and the civilians of 
the neighboring ranches got up a horse-race by 
way of celebrating the day. The races were 
to be, one for American horses, over an eight- 
hundred-yards straightaway course, and one for 
broncos, over a course of three hundred yards. 
On the day before the race, the first sergeant of 
the Rifles waited upon a lieutenant of the regi- 
ment and requested him to enter a " company 
horse," — one which had been assigned as a 
mount to one of their number. The request 
was granted. All the horses were to be ridden 
by soldiers. 

At two o'clock on the afternoon of the Fourth 
the horses were assembled at the course to the 
west of the fort, Two-Bits being present and 
mounted by the boy-fifer, Joe Cain, of the infan- 
try. The officers walked around the " company 
horse " with considerable curiosity, commenting 
on his appearance, and wondering how, if he 
possessed any merits, he had escaped their no- 
tice up to this time. Captain Tilford seemed to 
express the general sentiment of the officers, at 
the conclusion of the inspection, when he said, 
" I would not give two bits for that horse's 
chance of winning the prize." 

The race came off, and the carefully groomed 
and gayly caparisoned horses of the officers and 



civilians, and the plainly equipped favorite of 
the soldiers burst down the track in line, to ar- 
rive scattered and blown at the goal, wnth the 
despised " company horse " some three lengths 
ahead. And from that day the victor was 
known as " Two- Bits." 

With the breaking out of the Civil War all 
mounted regiments were made cavalry. This 
wiped out of existence the two dragoon regi- 
ments and the rifle regiment, the latter being re- 
christened the Third Cavalry, and ordered from 
New Mexico to the East, for service in the field. 
Their horses were left behind, being turned over 
to the New Mexico volunteer cavalry. Tv\-o- 
Bits was assigned to the troop whicli was then 
a part of the garrison of Fort Whipple. In the 
march from the valley of the Rio Grande to the 
valley of the Rio Colorado he had succumbed 
to Mexican neglect and abuse, and fallen a vic- 
tim to hard usage. And so, by a mere chance, 
the meeting took place between the veteran 
steed and his former jockey of the Fort Craig 
race. Cain had recognized his old friend of five 
years before, and knowing that he would not be 
allowed to own a horse, he did the next best 
thing, — made me his owiier, which gave him the 
care of the animal, and frequent opportunities 
to take him out for an airing. 

From this time on, I had many long rides on 
Two-Bits, in the weary and tiresome pursuit of 
the Indians, who never neglected to take advan- 
tage of the unprotected state of the Territory. 
I became very much attached to the horse and 
even took pains to win a place in his affections, 
often being much surprised at his wonderful in- 
telligence and almost human discernment. He 
would never desert his rider in a place of dan- 
ger, no matter what the temptation. Three or 
four times when taking him out for exercise, 
Cain had dismounted for some purpose and 
Two-Bits had immediately kicked up his heels 
like a colt and trotted back to his stall in the 
corral.* But once at a good distance from the 
post or train, or in a situation of danger, and 
he would stay by his rider when free to go. 
This statement may appear doubtful to many, 
but ever)' man who was stationed at Fort Whip- 
ple during the time Two- Bits occupied a stall 
there, believed more than I have stated. Two 
instances, which I will relate, so impressed me 

• To show that he was no respecter of persons, I m 

that I can have but one opinion of this noble 
old horse. Once, when I had ridden down the 
valley of the Rio Verde, some tliirty miles from 
the fort, on a solitary fishing excursion, I strolled 
along its banks for several hours, standing by 
pools and handling a rod, while a carbine rested 
in my left elbow and two revohers hung at my 
waist. I looked over my shoulders for Indians 
more frequently than the fish favored me with 
bites. Suddenly, Two-Bits, who had been graz- 
ing close by, unpicketed, came trotting down to 
me in considerable excitement. Without stop- 
ping to inquire the cause I dropped fishing-tackle 
and basket, mounted and rode to an eminence, 
from which I saw, on the opposite side of the 
stream, half a mile away, a party of mounted 
Apaches who had not been visible from my 
fishing-place because of a fringe of willows. As 
soon as they discovered me they whooped and 
gave chase; but the long legs of Two-Bits made 
nothing of running away from them, and I was 
soon far beyond their reach. 

The second incident occurred when I was 
returning from a visit of inspection to a hay- 
camp ten miles from the post. I was riding at 
a walk along a level road, which was skirted on 
my left by thick sage-brush. My left foot was 
out of the stirrup. A sudden shot from cover 
cut my coat-collar and caused the horse to jump 
suddenly to the right. Having no support 
on my left, and being taken off my guard, I top- 
pled from the saddle and fell to the ground, but 
fortunately landed on my feet and facing the 
ambuscade, so I quickly covered the spot with 
my rifle. Two-Bits did not stir after I fell, and 
I walked backwards around to his right side, 
and mounted in reverse of custom, still covering 
the possible enemy, and rode away, first slowly 
and then at a run, until beyond rifle-range. Then 
I saw three Apaches rise from the brush. 

Again, when Lieutenant R and myself, 

with ten men, had been four days in pursuit of 
a band of Indians that had run oflf the stock 
from a neighboring ranch, we found one of our 
men unable to sit in his saddle from wounds. 
We removed the saddle from his horse and 
bound him at length along the back, and did 
our best to make him as comfortable as pos- 
sible. He rode along quietly for some time, and 
then asked to be put on Two-Bits. After this, 

ust admit that l)e twice did the same thing for me. 




the horse was a greater favorite than ever with 
the men. Not one of our party could have 
been made to believe that Two-Bits did not 
understand the necessity of treading gently with 
his sensitive burden ; and I must admit that 
when our road lay down some bowlder-strewn 
declivity, the horse seemed careful to select the 
places for his feet, and certainly was tediously 
slow. I confess I am of the opinion of the 
men ; I believe the horse fully understood the 
condition of his charge, and the necessity of 
going slowly and gently in rough places. The 
man reached the post hospital in safety and re- 
covered ; and from the day of his recovery Two- 
Bits had another devoted friend and guardian. 



As the Fourth of July, 1865, approached, in 
the dearth of otlier material and the abundance 
of horses, the citizens of Prcscott determined 
to ofter a series of horse and pony races as attrac- 
tions, and there was at once considerable excite- 
ment in horse circles in consequence. Officers 
of the garrison caught the excitement and vied 
with the ranchmen and miners, and began look- 
ing over their favorites with a view to capturing 
the various bridles, saddles, etc., offered as prizes. 

One race was to be for American horses only, 
this name being used to distinguish the cavalry 
horses and those brought from the East, from 
the mustangs, Texas ponies, and broncos. The 
gait for all horses was to be a run, under the 
saddle, over distances ranging from five hundred 
to eight hundred yards, according to whether 
the contestants belonged to one or the other 
of the classes mentioned, — the longer distance 
being for the American horses. 

A few days after the conditions of the race 
were published, Cain proposed that I should 
enter Two- Bits for the eight-hundred-yards race, 
assuring me that if I would do so I was sure to 
win the prize. But I pooh-poohed the sug- 
gestion at once, and even ridiculed Cain for his 
folly in imagining for a moment that Two-Bits 
could compete with such steeds as were already 
entered. I soon found that I had plunged the 
ambitious fifer into the depths of despair. For 
several days he moped about his duties in a 

silent and dejected manner, until his evident 
misery aroused my compassion. So one morn- 
ing after he had completed the housework of 
my quarters, I asked him to remain a few mo- 
ments, and then referred to the subject, which I 
knew had full possession of his thoughts, with 
the question : 

" You do not suppose, Cain, that so old a 
horse as Two- Bits would stand any chance in 
this race ? " 

" He would, jist, sor ! " he answered with em- 

" But he is very old, Cain. He must be 
twenty, at the very least." 

" Yis, sor, and he grows faster as he grows 
older, sor." 

Evidently there was no use in arguing against 
Two-Bits, with a person so prejudiced as Cain; 
but I continued : 

" Your love for your old favorite, Cain, mis- 
leads you as to his capabilities. I know him to 
be easy and free under the saddle, and the best 
horse I ever rode, but it is not reasonable to 
expect him, at his age, to beat young horses, 
after all the ill-treatment he has undergone." 

'■ I wish the Liftinent would jist give me the 
thrial of him, that 's all. There 's not a baste in 
these parts can bate him ! " 

" But you are not reasonable about this, Cain. 
Because Two-Bits won a race five years ago, 
it does not follow that he can do so now. There 
is that fine black of King Woolsey's — what pos- 
sible chance is there that any horse in Arizona 
can take the lead of him ? " 

" That 's jist it, sor. The consate of that man 
Woolsey nades a rebuke, sor. Two-Bits can 
give him one, asy. I know the horse, sor. If 
the Liftinent will pardon an ould soldier for mak- 
in' so bould as to sit up an opinion ag'inst his, 
I beg lave to remoind him that I have rode the 
winning horse at miny a race in the ould coun- 
try and in this; and while 1 'm free to admit 
that Two-Bits does not aquel the racin'-stock 
o' the quality and gintry, he is far beyant any- 
thing this side o' the wather." 

" Well, Cain, leave me now to consider the 
matter, and call again in an hour." 

Left alone, I was not long in coming to the 
conclusion that the soldier should be indulged 
in his wish to enter Two-Bits for the race. Ac- 



cordingly, when the fifer returned for my de- 
cision, I said : 

" I am going to allow you to run him, Cain. 
I look upon the horse as your discovery. He 
has cost me literally nothing." 

" Thank you, sor, and you '11 win the prize," 
said Cain. 

" No ; I don't care for the prize. I will pay 
the entrance fee, and if you win the race the prize 
shall be your own." 

When I recalled the many evidences I had 
had of Two-Bits' speed in pursuit of Indians, and 
in retreats when the Indian in turn was pursuer, 
and my life had depended upon his gait and his 
endurance, I could not but hope he would win. 

On the day of the race I sat, by no means a 
calm and disinterested spectator, on a bench 
near the goal. After the race of ponies, mus- 
tangs, and broncos, came the principal race — 
that of American horses. I will spare the 
reader details of the race further than to say 
that, to the surprise of everybody but Joe Cain, it 
ended as at Fort Craig. Two-Bits came in with 
dilated nostrils and blazing eyes, amid the thun- 
dering cheers of the soldiers, fully two lengths 
ahead. Cain led him back to the fort, escorted 
the whole distance by admiring blue-coats. At 
the stables, Cain sat on an inverted grain-ineas- 
ure and told over for the hundredth time the 
w'ay the horse received the name Two-Bits, and 
how he had discovered the old horse, friend- 
less and broken down, in the Whipple corral, 
and having built him up to his present beau- 
tiful proportions, had once more ridden him to 

I have related the foregoing incidents in an 
attempt to interest the reader in the personality 
of my horse. He is the hero of the story — 
the men are only accessories. The incident to 
which all this is a preface must have a chapter 
by itself. 



In the fall of the year 1865, the Indian 
troubles became so serious that only with the 
greatest difficulty could we maintain our com- 
munications with the outer world. Every little 
while an express-rider would fail to make his 

appearance when due, and an expedition sent 
in search of him often found his body in the 
road, in some rugged defile or thick chaparral, 
stripped, scalped, and disfigured, the contents 
of the express-pouch scattered for yards around, 
all letters broken open, and the illustrated papers 
torn into shreds, while the newspapers were sim- 
ply thrown aside. The peril became so great 
in time that single riders could not be hired for 
the service, and at last only cavalrymen in par- 
ties of five were sent on this dangerous duty. 
Even numbers was not always a protection, as 
I once found when, sent to look for a missing 
express, I discovered all the men dead together. 

On the 20th of October a dispatch was re- 
ceived with accompanying instructions that it 
should be forwarded without delay to Santa Fe. 
Accordingly, I advertised for an express-rider, 
offering the highest pay allowed for the service. 
The route on the northeast was not considered 
to be so dangerous as those lying to the east, 
south, or west. Still there was no response to 
my offer, and I began to consider the expediency 
of asking for a detail from the cavalry, when a 
proposition came from an unexpected quarter. 
The man whom I have before mentioned as 
having been wounded during an Indian expe- 
dition and brought to the fort on the back of 
Two-Bits, came into my office, and offered to 
carry the dispatch, provided I would let him 
ride Two- Bits. 

This man's name was Porter. He was a 
Londonderry Irishman by birth and was now 
sergeant in the infantry company. Years after- 
wards we learned that he was of gentle descent, 
and a graduate of Edinburgh University. He 
was a handsome, soldierly fellow, of refined 
features, gentlemanly bearing, good height, and 
undoubted courage. He entered my office, as 
1 before stated, and said he would take the 
mail to Fort Wingate if I would lend him 

" But Two-Bits is my private property, Ser- 
geant, and is not subject to such service," I 

" I know that, sir; but he has many qualities 
which fit him for it." 

" Not more than half a dozen other horses in 
the corral, Sergeant." 

" No horse has just his qualities, sir. He is 



especially fitted for dangerous service such 
as this. He is fleet, he will not whinny nor 
do anything to attract attention in an Indian 
country. He will not desert his rider if turned 
loose, and he will not be stampeded if his rider 
sleeps while he grazes." 

" You seem to liave studied his character 

" Yes, sir, I know Two-Bits very well ; but 
not better than yourself, or most of the men of 
the garrison. He is a remarkable horse. He is 
well drilled and he is very intelligent. He always 
seems to understand what is expected of him." 

" But really. Sergeant, I do not like to let 
him go on such a trip. I fear I should never 
see him again. The trip would be a tremendous 
strain upon the old horse." 

" He shall have the tenderest care, sir. I 
will treat him as he deserves." 

" I have no doubt of that. Sergeant. He 
would be treated well by all of our men. In 
fact, he is always made a pet of by every one. 
I will think of it. Call again later." 

After Sergeant Porter went out, I walked over 
to the quarters of the commanding officer and 
told him of the proposition. He at once fell in 
with the plan and advised me to let the horse 
go. He said the horse could not be in better 
hands, and that doubtless he would go through 
safely, without fatigue, and return to me in a few 
weeks. He said he would convene a board of 
officers to appraise the horse, so that if he should 
be lost I could put in a claim for reimbursement. 
I agreed, and next day the board sat and ap- 
praised the value of my five-dollar horse at 
nearly $200 in gold. 

On the morning of the 25th of October, Ser- 
geant Porter, mounted on Two-Bits, rode out of 
Fort Whipple, amid the hearty good wishes and 
handshakes of men and officers. He carried 
a mail pouch weighing twenty pounds, an over- 
coat and three blankets, a carbine and two re- 
volvers, and six days' rations. 

The adventures of horse and rider, after we 
saw them disappear behind the " red rocks," five 
miles below the fort, were related to me in 1867, 
at Fort Sumner, New Mexico, by Porter, who 
had in the mean time been appointed a lieuten- 
ant in the army. I had not seen him since he 
started on his journey. 

For three days the ride was without incident 
worth relating. On the fourth he did not leave 
his stopping-place until one o'clock in the after- 
noon. At two o'clock he found himself on the 
crest of a range of hills overlooking a plain 
which extended right and left almost to the 
horizon, and in front at least twenty miles, to 
the broken and hilly country beyond. It was as 
level as the surface of a lake. From the edge 
of the plain stretched the nan-ow thread of the 
Military road, straight across to the foot-hills 
beyond. The road down the declivity to the 
plain being rough and stony, the sergeant dis- 
mounted and followed his horse, allowing him 
to pick his way and take his own gait. When 
he arrived at the foot of the range, he noticed 
that there lay between him and the plain, and 
parallel to its edge, a long low ridge. He halted 
in the ravine formed by the ridge and the foot- 
hills to tighten girth and straps and readjust his 
luggage before taking the road over the plain. 
While engaged in this operation, Porter noticed 
that, at the point where he stood, the road 
divided into two; these passed over the ridge 
a hundred yards apart, descended on the other 
side, and met again in one road about a mile 
out on the plain. The reason for this division 
was that the left-hand road had become badly 
gullied in one of the rare and violent rainfalls 
peculiar to that region, and the wagoners had 
made a new one to avoid its roughness. 

Finishing the adjustment of the saddle and its 
attached parcels, the sergeant still postponed re- 
mounting, and followed his horse slowly up the 
ridge, leaving the choice of roads to the animal, 
it being a matter of indifference to a horseman 
whether the road was gullied or not. Two-Bits 
took the left-hand road, and moved leisurely up 
the slope, raising his head high as he approached 
the crest to look beyond it. Suddenly he stopped 
and stood perfectly rigid, his ears set forward 
and his eyes fixed upon some object, evidendy 
in alarm. Porter crept carefully forward and 
looked beyond the ridge. Behind a mass of 
granite bowlders which skirted the left of the 
other road, four Indian ponies could be seen 
picketed. Evidendy their riders were among 
the rocks watching for the express-rider they 
had seen descending from the range. They 
naturally supposed that he would pass along the 




usually traveled road. Nothing but the acci- 
dent that Two-Bits took the old road prevented 
the sergeant from falling into the ambuscade 
and ending his life there. From the old road 
the ponies were plainly visible in a nook among 
the bowlders ; from the newer road they could 
not have been seen. 

The sergeant backed Two-Bits sufficiently to 
put him out of sight of the Indians. When all 
was ready, Porter patted the old horse affection- 
ately on the neck and said, " Now, old fellow, 

he could reload without a second's delay, and, 
aiming carefully, fired, killing the pony instantly. 
He reloaded, and as an Indian sprang from 
cover to see where the shot came from, he caught 
the second bullet and fell across the dead pony. 
Not another Indian showed himself until Porter 
was well out upon the plain ; then he heard 
the shrill staccato of the Navajo war-whoop, 
and glancing backward over his shoulder saw 
three Indians pursuing at the top of their ponies' 
speed. Two-Bits threw himself into the task 



everything depends upon your legs." Porter 
always maintained that Two-Bits understood 
the coming struggle as fully as he did himself 
When all was completed, Porter mounted and 
rode slowly over the ridge and slowly down the 
opposite slope. He was anxious that the Indians 
should not discover him until he should be well 
beyond the gullies in the road. These he passed 
safel\-, and, as he rose to the level ground beyond, 
he noticed that one of the mustangs in the bowl- 
ders was holding his head high, watching his 
movements. It occurred to the sergeant that 
to kill a pony would be equal to killing an In- 
dian. He took a cartridge in his palm, so that 
Vol. XVII.— 5. 

of running away from the mustangs with all the 
elasticity and grace that had distinguished him 
on the racecourse, and had alwa}'s led to vic- 
tory. He settled down to a long and steady 
pace which promised soon to leave his pursuers 
far behind. The soldier was beginning to con- 
gratulate himself upon his wisdom in insisting 
upon having Two-Bits for his service. With every 
spring the old horse seemed to be fast widen- 
ing the distance between the Indians and their 
intended victim ; and this continued for about 
half a dozen miles, when Porter reluctantly ob- 
served that no further change in his favor was 
evident. In fact, it soon became evident that 




the Navajos were slowly and surely closing up 
on him. 

This was not at all strange. Two- Bits was an 
American horse, accustomed in garrison and 
camp to his twelve pounds of grain daily; a 
kind of horse that will invariably run down in 
flesh on a grazing diet. The mustangs lived en- 
tirely upon grass and grew fat and kept in good 
condition even when subjected to the roughest 
usage. Two-Bits was heavily loaded and had 
tasted no grain for four days ; the mustangs were 
lightly mounted and filled with their accustomed 
forage. Two-Bits was old and the mustangs were 
young. The odds were decidedly against the 
veteran war-horse ; but he kept on with his long 
l)0werful gallop, while the Indian ponies came 
on with a short, quick, tireless clatter which 
never changed its cadence and threatened to 
overtake the sergeant before he could gain the 
shelter of the hills, still many miles away. 

The flight and pursuit over the plain had to 
be confined closely to the road. Outside of the 
track the vegetation would seriously wound and 
disable an animal attempting to go through its 
spiked obstructions. 

At last an arrow flew between Porter's shoul- 
der and ear. Turning in his saddle, he fired, 
breaking the leading Navajo's arm and causing 
him to fall into the road, while his riderless pony 
stopped by the wayside and began at once to 
graze, .-^s the sergeant dropped his carbine by 
his right side to place a new cartridge in the 
breech, an arrow struck his right hand, his fingers 
relaxed, and the precious weapon dropped into 
the road. He could not stop to recover it, — it 
would be useless with a badly wounded hand, — 
so he plunged wearily on, looking at the broken 
fingers and flowing blood, with his first serious 
misgivings. His chances of getting out of this 
scrape alive seemed desperate indeed. With his 
skill as a marksman, he had all along thought 
that he should soon pick oft" all his enemies ; but 
with no carbine and a useless right hand the 
chances were much against him. 

Resolving, like a brave man, to die game. 
Porter hastily bound his handkerchief about his 
wounded hand, and drew a revolver in his left. 
Turning, he fired shot after shot, but without 
effect except to keep the two Indians hanging 
over the sides of their horses, until, conceiving 

a contempt for his inaccurate aim, they sat up- 
right, and sent arrow after arrow toward him. 
The distance was still too great for these primi- 
tive missiles to be fully eftective, but two pierced 
his shoulders, and the shafts of three could be 
seen switching up and down in the quarters of 
Two-Bits as he galloped wearily on. A lucky 
shot caused one of the Indians to rein up sud- 
denly, dismount, and .sit down by the roadside. 
The last Navajo kept on, however, with all the 
eagerness with which he began the chase ap- 
parently unabated, and soon he wounded Por- 
ter again, and this time along the ribs. In very 
desperation, the sergeant then suddenly turned 
his horse to the right-about, bore down quickly 
upon the Indian pony, and before his rider had 
time to recover from his surprise at the unex- 
pected attack he sent his last remaining shot 
crashing into the brain of the mustang. The 
little horse swerved out of the track and fell 
headlong into a cactus, and before the Indian 
could extricate himself Two-Bits and his rider 
had wheeled and were out of arrow-range. 

The pursuit was at an end, and it would no 
doubt be pleasant to the reader of this story of 
a horse if I could say that the sergeant and 
Two-Bits were now safe. But they were very 
far from safe. When well beyond any chance 
of pursuit from the last and ponyless Navajo, 
Porter slid painfully from his saddle to examine 
into his own and his horse's injuries. No arrows 
were left in his own body, but he was badly 
lacerated and had bled profusely, until he was 
scarcely able to stand. The horse had received 
seven wounds, and three arrows were still stick- 
ing in his flesh. These were not deeply in, and 
were easily removed ; but a long cut along the 
ribs, from hind to fore quarters, had torn the 
skin badly and still bled profusely. Porter 
bound up his own wounds with fair success, 
but he could do nothing for the horse. Neither 
could he relieve Two-Bits by walking. The 
horse refused a ration of hard bread offered 
him, and there remained nothing to be done 
but for the sergeant to drag himself painfully 
into the saddle and resume his journey. Re- 
mounting was not accomplished without great 
difticulty, and only by the aid of a date-tree 
which forked, conveniently, two feet from the 
ground. Speed was now out of the question, 



and the horse simply hmped along at a feeble 
walk. The excitement of the chase was over, 
and the nerves of both man and beast had lost 
their tension. 

When the pursuit ended, Porter found him- 
self near the border of the plain from which the 

horse in a desert country without water might 
unfit him for further eftbrt, and without a horse 
there was no hope for the man to pass over the 
long remaining distance to Wingate. It was this 
very hopelessness which caused the soldier to 
press on into the increasing darkness, putting 


road led up into a rugged and hilly country, off a halt which he felt must be final. Still 

and it was already growing toward twilight, creeping slowly along, he at last surmounted 

The miles stretched wearily out, and there a height overlooking a narrow valley, and on 

seemed no better prospect than to dismount the other side saw a bright fire burning, which 

and try to find rest, even though rest for the occasionally disappeared and reappeared as if 




persons were passing before it. The hopes ot 
the soldier were at once revived at the prospect 
of reaching friends and assistance, but the hopes 
were as quickly depressed by the fear that the 
fire might be that of an enemy, — probably a 
party of Navajos, for this was their country. 
But even a foe might prove to be a friend to 
one in his plight, so he pressed on. 

Two-Bits was so weak that he hardly more 
than moved, and hours elapsed before the valley 
was crossed and he brought his rider near the 
fire. He was ascending the hillside on which the 
fire was burning when the rattle of halter-chains 
over feed-bo.xes — a sound familiar to a soldier's 
ears — came plainly through the evening air, 
and Porter knew that he was near a Go\ern- 
ment train. With the welcome sound he grew 
faint and fell from the saddle to the ground 
senseless. Two- Bits kept on into camp, ap- 
proached the camp-fire, looked into the faces of 
the guard which sat about its cheerful blaze, 
turned, as if to retrace his steps, staggered, fell, 
and died. 

The unexpected appearance of a horse, sad- 
dled and bridled, a mail-bag strapped on his 
back, his saddle covered with blood, his body 
wounded in half a dozen places, his sudden fall 
and tleath, started the whole camp into activity. 
The militar)- escort was soon under arms, horses 
and mules were quickly saddled, and lanterns 
were soon hurrying down the road. The search- 
ers had not far to go before they came upon the 
sergeant, lying apparently lifeless. He was taken 
into camp, tenderly cared for, and next day taken 
to Fort Wingate, the place for which the train 
was bound. 

Was Two-Bits left to be food for the coyotes ? 
No. Sergeant Porter told his story, and the 
command being of the company stationed at 
Fort Craig at the time of the first race men- 
tioned in these columns, it was not difficult to 
find a few sympathetic old soldiers who yielded 
to the earnest request of the wounded express- 
rider and buried his equine friend and comrade 
deeply, and heaped a mound of stones over his 


By Walter Camp, 

The rules governing American foot-ball are 
an outgrowth or development of the English 
Rugby foot-ball game, the very name of which 
at once recalls to every reader the well-beloved 
"Tom Brown." 

The credit of introducing these rules among 
our colleges belongs entirely to Harvard, who 
had learned them from the Canadians and were 
at the outset won by the superior opportunities 
offered by the new game for strategy and gen- 
eralship as well as for clever individual playing. 
After Harvard had played for a year or two with 
our northern neighbors, Yale was persuaded to 
adopt these English rules, and in 1876 the first 
match between two American collesre teams un- 

der the Rugby Union rules was played. Since 
that time the code has undergone many changes, 
the greater number being made necessary by the 
absolute lack of any existing foot-ball lore or 
tradition on American soil. The English game 
was one of traditions. " What has been done 
can be done ; what has not been done must be 
illegal," answered any question which was not 
fully foreseen in their laws of the game. 

For the first few years, our college players 
spent their time at conventions in adding rules 
to setde vexed problems continually arising, to 
which the English rules offered no solution. In 
this way the rules rapidly multiplied until the 
number was quite double that of the original 




code. Then followed the process of excision, 
and many of the old English rules which had 
become useless were dropped. During the last 
few years the foot-ball law-makers have changed 
but two or three rules a year. The method of 
making alterations has also been perfected. 

In order to avoid the petty dissensions inci- 
dent to contests so recent that the wounds of 
defeat were yet tender, an Advisory Committee 
of graduates has been appointed and all altera- 
tion of rules is in their hands. They meet once 
a year to propose any changes that appear to 
them necessary. They submit such propositions 
to the Intercollegiate Association for discussion 
and approval. Provided this Association ap- 
prove of them, they are then, by the Secretary 
of the Advisory Committee, incorporated in the 
rules for the following season. In case the Asso- 
ciation take exception to any, they are returned 
to the Advisory Board, and if they then receive 
the votes of four out of the five members, they 
become laws in spite of the disapproval of the 
Association. This has never yet occurred, nor 
has there been anything to mar the harmony 
existing between the two bodies. 

No change, then, is possible unless suggested 
by a body of men, not immediate participants 
in the sport, who have had the benefits of past 
experience. This most excellent state of afiairs 
was the result of suggestions emanating from 
an informal conference held some years ago in 
New York, at which were present members of 
the Faculties of Harvard, Princeton, and Yale. 
These gentlemen were at that time carefully 
watching the growth of the sport, and were pre- 
pared to kill or encourage it according to 
its deserts. Their suggestions have rendered 
most substantial aid to the game, and made 
its law-making the most conservative and thor- 
oughly well considered of all rules governing 
college contests. 

" How does the English game differ from the 
American ? " is a very common question, and in 
answering it one should first state that there are 
two games in England, — one " the Rugby " 
and the other " the Association." These dif- 
fer radically, the Association being more like 
the old-fashioned sport that existed in this 
country previous to the introduction of the 
Rugby. In the Association game the players 

can not run with the ball in their hands or 
arms, but move it rapidly along the ground 
with their feet — "dribble the ball," as their 
expression has it. Of course, then, a com- 
parison between our game and the Associ- 
ation is out of the question. To the Rugby 
Union, however, our game still bears a striking 
resemblance, the vital point of difference being 
the outlet to the " scrimmage " or " down." In 
the English game, when the ball is held and put 
down for what they call a '• scr//mmage," both 
sides gather about in a mass, and each endeav- 
ors by kicking the ball to drive it in the direc- 
tion of the opponents' goal. Naturally, there is 
a deal of pushing and hacking and some clever 
work with the feet, but the exact exit of the ball 
from the " scrummage " can not be predicted or 
anticipated, ^^'hen it does roll out, the man 
who is nearest endeavors to get it and make a 
run or a kick. The American scrimmage, while 
coming direcdy from the English play, bears 
now no similarity to it. Instead of an indis- 
criminate kicking struggle we have the snap- 
back and quarter-back play. The snap-back 
rolls the ball back with his foot ; the quarter 
seizes it and passes it to any man for whom the 
ball is destined in the plan of the play. In other 
respects, with the exception of greater liberties 
in assisting a runner, it would not be a very 
difficult task to harmonize our game with the 

While the game has in the last ten years grown 
rapidly in popular favor, it woukl not be fair to 
suppose that all of the ten or fifteen thousand 
spectators who gather to witness one of the great 
matches have clearly defined ideas of the rules 
which govern the contest. Many of the tech- 
nical terms they hear used are also Greek to 
them, and it would undoubtedly add to their 
enjoyment of the game to give a few clues to 
chief plays of interest. 

While awaiting the advent of the players, 
one looks down on the field and sees a rect- 
angular space a little over a hundred yards 
long and a trifle more than fifty yards wide, 
striped transversely with white lines, which give 
it the aspect of a huge gridiron. These lines 
are five yards apart, and their only purpose is to 
assist the referee in judging distances. There is 
a rule which says that in three attempts a side 




must advance the ball five, or take it back twenty- 
yards under penalty of surrendering it to the 
opponents. The field is therefore marked out 
with these five-yard lines, by means of which 
the referee can readily tell the distance made at 
each attempt. The gallows-like arrangements at 
the ends of the field are the goal posts, and in 
order to score a goal the ball must be kicked 
over a cross-bar extending between the posts by 
any kind of a kick e.xcept a "punt." That is, 
it must be by a "drop kick," which is made by 
letting the ball fall from the hand and kicking 
it as it rises from the ground ; by a " place 
kick," which is from a position of rest on the 
ground ; or finally even from a rolling kick. A 
"punt" is a kick made by dropping the ball 
from the hand and kicking it before it strikes 
the ground, and such a kick can under no cir- 
cumstances score a goal. Scoring is only pos- 
sible at the ends of the field, and all the work 
one sees performed in the middle of the ground 
is only the struggle to get the ball to the goal. 

There are two ways in which points may be 
made : By kicking the ball, as above described, 
over the goal, and by touching it down behind 
the goal line. A "safety " is made when a side 
are so sorely pressed that they carr\' the ball 
behind their own goal line, and not when it is 
kicked there by the enemy. In the latter case, 
it is called a " touchback," and does not score 

" down." Such a play entitles his side to a " try- 
at-goal," and if they succeed in kicking the ball 
over the bar, then the goal only scores and not 
the touchdown; but if they miss the try, they 
are still entitled to the credit of the touchdown. 
A goal can also be made without the interven- 
tion of a touchdown ; that is, it may be kicked 
direct from the field, either from a drop kick or 
a place kick, or even when it is rolling or bound- 
ing along the ground. This latter, however, is 
very unusual. In the scoring, the value of a field 
kick goal is only five, of a goal kicked from 
a touchdown, six; if the touchdown does not 
result in a goal it counts four, and a safety by 
the opponents counts the other side two. 

When the game begins, the ball is placed in 
the center of the field and put in play, or kicked 
off, as it is termed, by the side which has lost 
the choice of goal. From that time forward, 
during forty-five minutes of actual play, the two 
sides struggle to make goals and touchdowns 
against each other. Of the rules governing their 
attempts to carry the ball to the enemies' quarters, 
the most important are those of off side and on 
side. In a general way it may be said that " off 
side " means between the ball and the oppo- 
nents' goal, while " on side " means between the 
ball and one's own goal. A player is barred 
from taking part in the play or handling the 
ball, when in the former predicament. When a 


either for or against the side making it. A 
"touchdown " is made when a player carries the 
ball across his oppoueiits' goal line and there has 
it do\vn, /. <?., either cries " down " or puts it on 
the ground ; or if he secures the ball after it has 
crossed his opponents' goal line and then has it 

ball has been kicked by a player, all those of 
his side who are ahead of him, that is, between 
him and his opponents' goal, are off side, and 
e^•en though the ball go over their heads they 
are still off side until the ball has been touched 
by an opponent, or until the man who kicked it 


has run up ahead of them. Either of these two 
events puts them on side again. Any player who 
is on side may run with or kick the ball, and his 
opponents may tackle him whenever he has the 
ball in his arms. It is fair for them to tackle 
him in any way except below the knees. They 
must not, however, throttle or choke him, nor 
can players use the closed fist. The runner may 
push his opponents off with his open hand or 
arm, in any way he pleases, and abilit\- to do this 
well goes far toward making a successful runner. 

When a player having the ball is tackled and 
fairly held so that his advance is checked, and 
he can not pass the ball, the player tackling 
him cries out " Held ! " The runner must say 
" Down," and the ball is then put on the ground 
for a scrimmage. Any player of the side which 
had possession of the ball can then put it in play. 
Usually the " snap-back," as he is called, does 
this work. He places the ball on the ground, 
and then with his foot (or hand) rolls the ball 
back, or kicks it forward or to one side, generally 
for a player of his own side to seize. When the 
ball is rolled or snapped back, the man who first 
receives it is called the quarter-back, and he 
can not run forw^ard with it. ^^'he^, however, 
it is kicked sideways or ahead, any one except 
the snap-back and the opposing player opposite 
him can run with it. 

" Free kicks " are those where the opponents 
are restrained by rule from interfering with the ball 
or player until the kick is made. At the com- 
mencement of the game, the side which has lost 
the choice of goals has a free kick from the cen- 
ter of the field ; and when a goal has been scored 
the side which has lost it has a free kick from the 
same location. Any player who fairly catches 
the ball on the fly from an opponent's kick, has a 
free kick, provided he makes a mark with his heel 
on the spot of the catch. A side which has made 
a touchdown has a free kick at the goal, and a 
side which has made a safety or a touchback 
has a free kick from any spot behind the twenty- 
five-yard line. This line is the fifth white line 
from their goal, and upon that mark the oppo- 
nents may line up. 

A violation of any rule is called a foul, and 
the other side has the privilege of putting the 
ball down where the foul was made. Certain 
fouls are punished by additional penalties. A 

pla}"er is immediately disqualified for striking 
with the closed fist or unnecessary roughness. A 
side loses twenty-five yards, or the opponents 
may have a free kick, as a penalty for throttling, 
tripping up, or tackling below the knees. For 
oft-side play a side loses five )-ards. A player 
may pass or throw the ball in any direction ex- 
cept toward his opponents' goal. When the ball 
goes out of bounds at the side, it is "put in" at 
the spot where it crossed the line by a player of 
the side first securing the ball. He bounds or 
throws the ball in ; or he may, if he prefers, walk 
out with it any distance not greater than fifteen 
paces, and put it down for a scrimmage. 

.o -'^^^^i,- 


Of the two individuals one sees on the field in 
citizen's dress, one is the umpire and the other the 
referee. These two gentlemen are selected to see 
that the rules are observed and to settle any ques- 
tions arising during the progress of the game. 
It is the duty of the umpire to decide all points 
directly connected with the players' conduct, 
while the referee decides questions of the posi- 
tion or progress of the ball. The original rules 
provided that the captains of the two sides 
should settle all disputes; but this, at the very 
outset, was .so manifesdy out of the question that 
a provision was made for a referee. Then, as 
the captains had their hands full in commanding 
their teams, two judges were appointed, and it 
was the duty of these judges to make all claims 
for their respective sides. These judges soon be- 
came so importunate with their innumerable 
claims as to harass the referee beyond all en- 
durance. The next step, therefore, was to do 
away with the judges and leave the referee sole 




master of the field. Even then the referee found 
so much that it was impossible for him to watch, 
that it was decided to appoint a second man, 
called an umpire, to assist him. This umpire 
assumed the responsibility of seeing that the 
players committed no fouls, thus leaving the 
referee's undivided attention to be devoted to 
following the course of the ball. 

This has proved so wonderfully successful 
that the base-ball legislators are seriously con- 
sidering the question of adopting a similar system 
of dividing the work between two umpires. 

gradual development from the English Rugby, 
are peculiarly interesting, showing as they do 
the inventive faculty of our college players. 
The way in which the quarter-back play was 
suggested and perfected illustrates this very 
strongly. Our players began exactly as the Eng- 
lishmen, by putting the ball on the ground, clos- 
ing around it, and then kicking until it rolled 
out somewhere. In the first season of this style 
of scrimmage play, they made the discovery that 
far from being an advantage to kick the ball 
through, it often resulted in a great disadvan- 

There are two general divisions of players, 
the " rushers " or " forwards," so called because 
they constitute the front rank of the foot-ball 
army ; and the backs, called the quarter-back, 
the half-backs or halves, and the full-back or 
goal-tend. The quarter has been already de- 
scribed. The halves, of whom there are two, 
play several yards behind the rushers, and do 
the kicking or artillery work. The goal-tend is 
really only a third half-back, his work being 
almost the same as that of the halves. 

The changes the game has undergone in its 

tage, for it gave the opponents a chance to se- 
cure the ball and make a run. The players, 
therefore, would station a man a short distance 
behind the scrimmage, and the rushers in front 
would manage to so cleverly assist the kicking 
of the opponents as to let the ball come through 
directly to this player, who had then an excellent 
opportunit}- to run around the mass of men be- 
fore they realized that the ball had escaped. 

Soon an adventurous spirit discovered that he 
could so place his foot upon the ball that by 
pressing suddenly downwards and backwards 




with liis toe he would drag or snap the ball to 
the man behind him. At first, naturally, the 
snap-back was not sufficiently proficient to be 
always sure in his aim, but it did not take long 
to make the play a very accurate one, and in the 
games to-day it is unusual for the snap-back to 
fail in properly sending the ball to his quarter. 

Originally the quarter was wont to run with or 
kick the ball, but now as a rule he passes it to 
one of the halves or to a rusher who has come 
behind him, instead of making the run himself. 
The quarter then directs the course of the play, 
so that scientific planning is possible ; whereas 
in the old method the element of chance was 
far greater than that of skill. 

One frequently hears old players speak of 
the " block game " and its attendant evils. This 
was a system of play by which an inferior team 
was enabled to escape defeat by keeping con- 
tinual possession of the ball, while actually 
making but a pretense of play. So great did 
the evil become, that in 1882 a rule was made, 
which has already been mentioned, to the effect 
that a side must make an advance of five 
yards or retreat ten* in three scrimmages. The 
penalty for not doing this is the loss of the ball 
to the opponents. A kick is considered equiva- 
lent to an advance, even though the sarne side 
should, by some error of the opponents, regain 
the ball when it comes down. The natural 
working of this rule, as spectators of the game 
will readily see, is to cause a side to make one 
or two attempts to advance by the running style 
of play, and then, if they have not made the 
necessary five yards, to pass the ball back to a 
half for a kick. The wisdom of this play is evi- 
dent. If they find they must lose the ball, they 
wish it to fall to their opponents as far down the 
field as possible, and so they send it by a long 
kick as near the enemies' goal as they can. 

One other rule, besides this one, has had a de- 
velopment worthy of particular attention. It is 
the one regarding the value of the points scored. 
At first, goals only were scored. Then touch- 
downs were brought in, and a match was decided 
by a majority of these, while a goal received a 
certain equivalent value in touchdowns. Then 
the scoring of safeties was introduced ; but only 
in this way, that in case no other point was 
scored a side making four less safeties than their 

Vol. XVII.— 6. • This was altered r 

opponents should win the match. A goal kicked 
from a touchdown had always been con.sidered 
of greater value than a field-kick goal, but it 
was not until the scoring had reached the point 
of counting safeties, that it was decided to give 
numerical values to the various points in order 
that matches might be more surely and satisfac- 
torily decided. From this eventually came the 
method of scoring as mentioned earlier in this 

A few diagrams illustrati\e of the general 
l^osition of the players when executing various 
maneuvers will assist the reader in obtaining an 
insight into the plays. As there are no hard 
and fast rules for these positions they are de- 
pendent upon the judgment of each individual 
captain; nevertheless the following diagrams 
indicate in a general way the formations most 

The first diagram shows the measurements 
of the field as well as the general position of two 
teams just previous to the kick-oft', or opening 
of the game. While the front rank are all called 
forwards or rushers, distinctive names are given 
to the individual positions. These also are noted 
on this first diagram. 

The forwards of the side which has the kick, 
"line up" even with the ball, while their oppo- 
nents take up their positions ten yards away. 
They are not permitted to approach nearer 
until the ball is touched with the foot. For- 
merly, when it was the practice at kick-oft" to 
send the ball as far down the field as possible, 
the opponents were wont to drop two forwards, 
near the ends of the line, back a few feet ; thus 
providing for a short kick. The quarter took his 
place in a straight line back from the ball some 
sixty or seventy feet, while the two halves and 
the back stood sufficiently distant to be sure of 
catching a long kick. The positions of the side 
kicking the ball were not so scattered. All their 
forwards and the quarter stood even with the 
ball, ready to dash down the field ; while the 
halves and back stood only a short distance be- 
hind them, because as soon as the ball was sent 
down the field they would be in proper places 
to receive a return kick from the opponents. 

The kick-off of the present day is more apt to 
be a "dribble," or a touching the ball with the 
foot and then passing or running with it. The 

cently to twenty yards. 




result of this is that the opponents mass more 
compactly, the halves and quarter not playing 
far down the field and the rushers at the ends 
not dropping back. The side having the kick, 

the man who is to play the ball. Diagram 2 
illustrates the position at the moment of the kick- 
oft". The kicker touches the ball with his foot, 
picks it up and hands it to the runner who is 

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keeping in mind, of course, the particular play 
they intend to make, assume positions that shall 
the most readily deceive their opponents, if 
possible, and yet most favor the success of their 

For instance, an opening play quite common 
last year was the "wedge" or "V." In dia- 
grams 2 and 3 are shown the positions in this 
play. As the players "line out" they assume as 
nearly as possible the regular formation, in order 

I— I 




that their opponents may not at once become 
too certain of their intention. As soon, how- 
ever, as play has been called, one sees the rushers 
closing up to the center and the player who is 
to make the running, dropping in close behind 

coming just behind him. The forwards at once 
dash forward, making a V-shaped mass of men 
just within the angle of wliich trots along the 
runner. Diagram 3 shows them at this point. 

But tliis wedge no sooner meets tlie opposing 
line, than the formation becomes more or less 
unsteady, exactly in proportion to the strength 
and skill of the opponents. Against untrained 
players the wedge moves without great difticulty, 
often making twenty or thirty yards before it 
is broken. Skillful opponents will tear it apart 
much more .speedily. 

Now comes the most scientific part of the 
play; namely, the outlet for the runner and 
ball. There are two ways of successfully mak- 
ing this outlet. One is to have a running half- 
back moving along outside the wedge, taking 
care to be a little behind the runner so that 
the ball may be passed to him without com- 
mitting the foul of passing it ahead. When 
the wedge begins to go to pieces, the ball is 
de.\terously thrown out to him and he has an 
excellent opportunity for a run, because the 
opposing rushers are so involved in breaking the 



wedge that they can not get after him quickly. 
Diagram 4 illustrates this. The second, and by 
far the most successful when well played, is for 
two of the forwards in the wedge to suddenly 
separate and in their separation to push their 
opponents aside with their bodies, so that a 


o o 


pathway is opened for the runner, so he can 
dart out with the ball. Diagram 5 shows this. 

The wedge formation is a good play from 
any free kick, because the opponents are so re- 
strained by being obliged to keep behind a certain 
spot, that time is given for the wedge to form and 
acquire some headway before they can meet it. 

The formation of the side which has the ball 
in a scrimmage, next occupies our attention. 
As stated before in this article, it is customary 
for them to make two attempts to advance the 


ball by a run before resorting to a kick. There 
is some slight difference in the ways they form 
for these two styles of play. Diagram 6 shows 
the formation just previous to the run. The 
forwards are lined out, blocking their respective 
opponents, while the halves and backs generally 
bunch somewhat in order to deceive the oppo- 
nents as to which man is to receive the ball, as 
well as to assist him, when he starts, by blocking 
off the first tacklers. 

Diagram 7 shows the line of a half-back's run 
through the rushers. A and B endeavor, as he 
comes, to separate (by the use of their bodies, for 
they can not use their hands or arms to assist 
their runner) the two rushers in front of them, 
that the runner may get through between them. 

Diagram 8 shows still another phase of the 
running-game, where a rusher runs around be- 
hind the quarter, taking the ball from him on 
the run and making for an opening on the other 
side, or even on the very end. 

Diagram 9 shows the formation when, having 


made two attempts and not having advanced 
the ball five nor lost twenty yards, the side pre- 
fers to take a kick rather than risk a third fail- 
ure, which would give the ball to the opponents 
on the spot of the next "down." The forma- 
tion is very like that for the run, except that 
the distance between the forward line and the 
halves is somewhat increased and the three men 
are strung out rather more. 

Let us now consider the formation of the op- 
posing side during these plays. There is but 





one formation for the opponents in facing the 
running-game, and that is according to diagram 
10. Of course they alter this whenever they 
have the good fortune to discover where the 
run is to be made, but this is seldom so evident 
as to make much of an alteration in formation 
safe. Their forwards line up, and their quarter 
goes into the rush-line wherever he finds the 
best opening. Their halves stand fairly close 
up behind and their back only a little distance 
further toward the goal. The formation, after the 
two attempts to run have failed, is, however, quite 
different in respect to the half-backs and backs. 
They at once run rapidly back until they are all 
three at a considerable distance from the for- 
wards. The back stands as far as he thinks 




it possible for the opposing half to kick, under 
the most favorable circumstances, while the two 
halves stand perhaps forty or fifty feet in advance, 
ready to take the ball from a shorter kick. Dia- 
gram 1 1 illustrates this. 

In a "fair" or putting the ball in from the 



Dl.AGRAM 13. 

touch (see diagram 12), the same general forma- 
tion prevails as in the ordinary scrimmage, for it 
is reall)- nothing more than a scrimmage on the 
side of thefield instead of in the middle. It counts 
the same as an ordinary " down " in respect to the 
necessity of advancing five yards ; that is, if a side 
has made one attempt, from a down, to advance 
and has carried the ball out of bounds, and 
then makes another unsuccessful attempt to 
advance but is obliged to have the ball down 

again, without accomplishing the five-yard gain, 
it must on the next attempt make the distance 
or surrender the ball. 

After a touchdown has been made, if a try- 
at-goal is attempted by a place-kick, the fomia- 
rion is somewhat similar to a kick-oft". (See 
diagram 13.) The man who is to place the 
ball lies flat on his stomach with the ball in his 
hands, taking care that until the kicker is ready 
it docs not touch the ground, as that permits 
the opponents to charge. The forwards line 
up even with the ball, ready to run down 
when it is kicked, in order that they may have 
a chance of getting it, in case he misses the goal. 
The other half and the back stand a few feet 
behind the kicker. The position of the opponents 
in this play is necessarily limited, for they are 
obliged to stand behind their goal until the ball 
is kicked. The same diagram (13) shows the 
position they assume. Their rushers undertake 
to run forward and stop the ball, while their 
halves and back are ready, in case it misses, to 
make a touchback. 

These diagrams cover the most important 
plays of the game and give one an insight into the 
general manipulation of players during match. 


Bv Mary E. Wilkins. 

Ann Lizv was invited to spend the afternoon 
and take tea with her friend Jane Baxter, and 
she was ready to set forth about one o'clock. 
That was the fashionable hour for children and 
their elders to start when they were invited out 
to spend the afternoon. 

Ann Lizy had on her best muslin delaine 
dress, her best embroidered pantalets, her black 
silk apron, and her flat straw hat with long blue 
ribbon streamers. She stood in the south room 
— the sitting-room — before her grandmother, 
who was putting some squares of patchwork, 
■with needle, thread, and scissors, into a green 
silk bag embroidered with roses in bead-work. 

"There, Ann Lizy," said her grandmother, 
" you may take my bag if you are real careful 
of it, and won't lose it. When you get to Jane's 
you lay it on the table, and don't have it round 
when you 're playin' outdoors." 

" Yes, ma'am," said Ann Lizy. She was look- 
ing \vith radiant, admiring eyes at the bag — its 
cluster of cunningly -svrought pink roses upon 
the glossy green field of silk. Still there was a 
serious droop to her mouth ; she knew there 
was a bitter to this sweet. 

" Now," said her grandmother, " I 've put 
four squares of patchwork in the bag; they 're 
all cut and basted nice, and you must sew 'em 



all, over and over, before you play any. Sew 'em 
real fine and even, or you '11 have to pick the 
stitches out when you get home." 

Ann Lizy's radiant eyes faded; she hung her 
head. She calculated s\nftly that she could not 
finish the patchwork before four o'clock, and 
that would leave her only an hour and a half to 
eat supper and play with Jane, for she would 
have to come home at half-past five. " Can't 
I take two, and do the other two to-morrow, 
Grandma ? " said she. 

Her grandmother straightened herself disap- 
provingly. She was a tall, wiry old woman with 
strong handsome features showing through her 
wrinkles. She had been so energetic all her life, 
and done so much work, that her estimation of 
it was worn, like scales. Four squares of patch- 
work sewed with very fine even stitches had, to 
her, no weight at all ; it did not seem like work. 

" Well, if a great girl like you can't sew four 
squares of patchwork in an artemoon, I would n't 
tell of it, Ann Lizy," said she. " I don't know 
what you 'd say if you had to work the way I 
did at your age. If you can't have time enough 
to play and do a little thing like that, you 'd 
better stay at home. I ain't goin' to have you 
idle a whole arternoon, if I know it. Time 's 
worth too much to be wasted that way." 

" I 'd sew the others to-morrow," pleaded 
Ann Lizy faintly. 

" Oh, you would n't do it half so easy to- 
morrow; you 've got to pick the currants for the 
jell' to-morrow. Besides, that does n't make any 
difference. To-day's work is to-day's work, 
and it has n't anything to do with to-morrow's. 
It 's no excuse for idlin' one day, because you do 
work the next. You take that patchwork, and 
sit right down and sew it as soon as you get 
there — don't put it off — and sew it nice too, or 
you can stay at home — just which you hke." 

Ann Lizy sighed, but reached out her hand 
for the bag. " Now be careful and not lose it," 
said her grandmother, " and be a good girl." 

" Yes, ma'am." 

•' Don't run too hard, nor go to climbin' 
walls, and get your best dress torn." 

" No, ma'am." 

" And only one piece of cake at tea-time." 

" Yes, ma'am." 

" And start for home at half-past five." 

" Yes, ma'am." 

Little Ann Lizy Jennings, as she went down 
the walk between the rows of pinks, had a be- 
wildered feeling that she had been to Jane 
Baxter's to tea, and was home again. 

Her parents were dead, and she Hved with 
her Grandmother Jennings, who made her child- 
hood comfortable and happy, except that at 
times she seemed taken ofi' her childish feet by 
the energy and strong mind of the old woman, 
and so swung a little way through the world in 
her wake. But Ann Lizy received no harm 
by it. 

Ann Lizy went down the road \\ith the bead 
bag on her arm. She toed out primly, for she 
had on her best shoes. A little girl, whom she 
knew, stood at a gate in every-day clothes, and 
Ann Lizy bowed to her in the way she had seen 
the parson's wife bow, when out making calls in 
her best black silk and worked lace veil. The 
parson's \vik was young and pretty, and Ann 
Lizy admired her. It was quite a long walk to 
Jane Baxter's, but it was a beautiful afternoon, 
and the road was pleasant, although there were 
not many houses. There were green fields and 
flowering bushes at the .sides, and, some of the 
way, elm-trees arching over it. Ann Lizy would 
have been very happy had it not been for the 
patchwork. She had already pieced one patch- 
work quilt, and her grandmother displayed it to 
people with pride, sajing, "Ann Lizy pieced that 
before she was eight years old." 

Ann Lizy had not as much ambition as her 
grandmother, now she was engaged upon her 
second quilt, and it looked to her like a checked 
and besprigged calico mountain. She kept 
dwelling upon those four squares, over and over, 
until she felt as if each side were as long as the 
Green Mountain.-;. She calculated again and 
again how little time she would have to play 
with Jane — only about an hour, for she must 
allow a half-hour for tea. She was not a swift 
sewer when she sewed fine and even stitches, 
and she knew she could not finish those squares 
before four o'clock. One hourl — and she and 
Jane wanted to play dolls, and make wreaths 
out of oak-leaves, and go down in the lane after 
thimble-berries, and in the garden for goose- 
berries — there would be no time for anything! 

Ann Lizy's delicate litde face under the straw 




flat grew more and more sulky and distressed, 
her forehead wrinkled, and her mouth pouted. 
She forgot to swing her muslin delaine skirts 
gracefully, and flounced along hitting the dusty 
meadow-sweet bushes. 

Ann Lizy was about half-way to Jane Baxter's 
house, in a lonely part of the road, when she 
opened her bead bag and drew out her pocket- 
handkerchief — her grandmother had tucked that 
in with the patchwork — and wiped her eyes. 
When she replaced the handkerchief, she put it 
under the patchwork, and did not draw up the 
bag again, but went on, swinging it \'iolently by 
one string. 

When Ann Lizy reached Jane Baxter's gate, 
she gave a quick, scared glance at the bag. It 
looked very flat and limp. She did not open 
it, and she said nothing about it to Jane. They 
went out to play in the garden. There were so 
many hollyhocks there that it seemed like a real 
flower-grove, and the gooseberries were ripe. 

Shortly after Ann Lizy entered Jane Baxter's 
house, a white horse and a chaise passed down 
the road in the direction from which she had 
just come. There were three persons in the 
chaise — a gentleman, lady, and little girl. The 
lady wore a green silk pelerine, and a green 
bonnet with pink strings, and the gentleman a 
blue coat and bell hat. The little girl had pretty 
long, ligiit curls, and wore a white dress and 
blue sash. She sat on a little footstool down in 
front of the seat. They were the parson's wife's 
sister, her husband, and her little girl, and had 
been to visit at the parsonage. The gentleman 
drove the white horse down the road, and the 
little girl looked sharply and happUy at every- 
thing by the way. All at once she gave a little 
cry — "Oh, Father, what 's that in the road ?" 

She saw Ann Lizy's patchwork, all four squares 
nicely pinned together, lying beside the meadow- 
sweet bushes. Her father stopped the horse, got 
out, and picked up the patchwork. 

" Why," said the parson's wife's sister, " some 
Htde girl has lost her patchwork ; look, Sally ! " 

" She '11 be sorry, won't she ? " said the little 
girl whose name was Sally. 

The gentleman got back into the chaise, and 
the three rode oft" with the patchwork. There 
seemed to be nothing else to do ; there were no 
houses near and no people of whom to inquire. 

Besides, four squares of calico patchwork were 
not especially valuable. 

"If we don't find out who lost it, I '11 put it 
into my quilt," said Sally. She studied the pat- 
terns of the calico veiy happily, as they rode 
along ; she thought them prettier than anything 
she had. One had pink roses on a green ground, 
and she thought that especially charming. 

Meantime, while Sally and her father and 
mother rode away in the chaise with the patch- 
work, to Whitefield, ten miles distant, where their 
house was, Ann Lizy and Jane played as fast 
as they could. It was four o'clock before they 
went into the house. Ann Lizy opened her bag, 
which she had laid on the parlor-table with the 
"Young Lady's Annuals" and " Mrs. Hemans' 
Poems." " I s'pose I must sew my patchwork," 
said she, in a miserable guilty Httle voice. Then 
she exclaimed. It was strange that, well as she 
knew there was no patchwork there, the actual 
discovery of nothing at all gave her a shock. 

" What 's the matter ? " asked Jane. 

" I 've — lost my patchwork," said Ann Lizy. 

Jane called her mother, and they condoled 
with Ann Lizy. Ann Lizy sat in one of Mrs. 
Baxter's rush-bottomed chairs and began to cry. 

" Where did you lose it ? " Mrs. Baxter asked. 
" Don't cry, Ann Lizy, maybe we can find it." 

" I s'pose I — lost it comin'," sobbed Ann Lizy. 

"Well, I '11 tell you what 't is," said .Mrs. 
Ba.xter; " you and Jane had better run up the 
road a piece, and likely as not you '11 find- it ; 
and I '11 have tea all ready when you come home. 
Don't feel so bad, child, you '11 find it, right 
where you dropped it." 

But Ann Lizy and Jane, searching carefiflly 
along the road, did not find the patchwork where 
it had been dropped. " Maybe it 's blown 
away," suggested Jane, although there was 
hardly wind enough that afternoon to stir a 
feather. And the two little girls climbed over 
the stone walls, and searched in the fields, but 
they did not find the patchwork. Then another 
mishap befell Ann Lizy. She tore a three-cor- 
nered place in her best muslin delaine, getting 
over the wall. When she saw that she felt as 
if she were in a dreadful dream. " Oh, what will 
Grandma say ! " she wailed. 

" Maybe she won't scold," said Jane, consol- 



" Yes, she will. Oh dear ! " 

The two little girls went dolefully home to tea. 
There were hot biscuits, and honey, and tarts, 
and short gingerbread, and custards, but Ann 
Lizy did not feel hungry. Mrs. Baxter tried to 
comfort her ; she really saw not much to mourn 
over, except the rent in the best dress, as four 
squares of patchwork could easily be replaced ; 
she did not see the true inwardness of the case. 

At half-past five, Ann Lizy, miserable and 
tear-stained, the three-cornered rent in her best 
dress pinned up, started for home, and then — 
her grandmother's beautiful bead bag was not to 
be found. Ann Lizy and Jane both remembered 
that it had been carried when they set out to 
find the patchwork. Ann Lizy had meditated 
bringing the patchwork home in it. 

" Aunt Cynthy made that bag for Grandma," 
said Ann Lizy in a tone of dull despair ; this was 
beyond tears. 

" Well, Jane shall go with you, and help find 
it," said Mrs. Baxter, " and I '11 leave the tea- 
dishes and go too. Don't feel so bad, Ann 
Lizy, I know I can find it." 

But Mrs. Baxter, and Jane, and Ann Lizy, 
all searching, could not find the bead bag. " My 
best handkerchief was in it," said Ann Lizy. 
It seemed to her as if all her best things were 
gone. She and Mrs. Baxter and Jane made a 
doleful little group in the road. The frogs were 
peeping, and the cows were coming home. 
Mrs. Baxter asked the boy who drove the cows 
if he had seen a green bead bag, or four squares 
of jjatchwork ; he stared and shook his head. 

Ann Lizy looked like a wilted meadow reed, 
the blue streamers on her hat drooped dejectedly, 
her best shoes were all dusty, and the three- 
cornered rent was the feature of her best muslin 
delaine dress that one saw first. Then her little 
delicate face was all tear-stains and downward 
curves. She stood there in the road as if she 
had not courage to stir. 

" Now, Ann Lizy," said Mrs. Baxter, " you 'd 
better run right home and not worry. I don't 
believe your Grandma '11 scold you, when you 
tell her just how 't was." 

.^.nn Lizy shook her head. " Yes, she will." 

"Well, she '11 be worrying about you if you 
ain't home before long, and I guess you 'd better 
go," said Mrs. Baxter. 

Ann Lizy said not another word ; she began 
to move dejectedly toward home. Jane and 
her mother called many kindly words after her, 
but she did not heed them. She kept straight 
on, walking slowly until she was home. Her 
grandmother stood in the doorway watching for 
her. She had a blue-yarn stocking in her hands, 
and she was knitting fast as she watched. 

"Ann Lizy, where have you been, late as 
this ? " she called out as Ann Lizy came up the 
walk. " It 's arter six o'clock." 

Ann Lizy continued to drag herself slowly 
forward, but she made no reply. 

" Why don't you speak ? " 

Ann Lizy crooked her arm around her face 
and began to cry. Her grandmother reached 
down, took her by the shoulder, and led her 
into the house. " What on airth is the matter, 
child .? " said she ; " have you fell down ? " 

" No, ma'am." 

"What does ail you then? — Ann Lizy Jen- 
nings, how come that great three-cornered tear 
in your best dress ? " 

Ann Lizy sobbed. 

" Answer me." 

"I — tore it gittin' over — the wall." 

" What were you gettin' over walls for in your 
best dress ? I 'd like to know what you s'pose 
you '11 have to wear to meetin' now. Did n't I 
tell you not to get over walls in your best dress ? 
— A?ui Lizy Jetinmgs, where is my bead bag? " 

"I— lost it." 

" Lost my bead bag ? " 

" Yes, ma'am." 

" How did you lose it, eh ? " 

" I lost it when — I was lookin' for — my 

" Did you lose your patchwork ? " 

" Yes, ma'am." 


" When I was — goin' over to — Jane's." 

" Lost it out of the bag ? " 

Ann Lizy nodded, sobbing. 

" Then you went to look for it and lost the bag. 
Lost your best pocket-handkerchief too ? " 

" Yes, ma'am." 

Old Mrs. Jennings stood looldng at Ann Lizy. 

"All that patchwork, cut out and basted jest 
as nice as could be, your best pocket-handker- 
chief, and my bead bag lost, and your meetin' 




dress tore," said she ; " well, you 've done about 
enough for one day. Take off your things and 
go upstairs to bed. You can't go over to Jane 
Baxter's again for one spell, and every mite of 
the patchwork that goes into the quilt you 've 
got to cut by a thread, and baste yourself, and 
to-morrow you 've got to hunt for that patch- 
work and that bag till you find 'em, if it takes 
you all day. Go right along." 

Ann Lizy took off her hat, and climbed meekly 
upstairs, and went to bed. She did not say her 
pra)'ers ; she lay there and wept. It was about 
half-past eight, the air coming through the open 
window was loud with frogs, and katydids, and 
whippoorwills, and the twilight was very deep, 
when Ann Lizy arose and crept downstairs. 
She could barely see her way. 

There was a candle lighted in the south room, 
and her grandmother sat there knitting. Ann 
Lizy, a piteous litdc figure in her white night- 
gown, stood in the door. 

" Well, what is it ? " her grandmother .said, in 
a severe voice that had a kindly inflection in it. 

" Grandma — " 

" What is it ? " 

" I lost my patchwork on purpose. I did n't 
want — to sew it." 

" Lost your patchwork on purpose ! " 

" Yes — ma'am," sobbed Ann Lizy. 

" Let it drop out of the bag on purpose ? " 

" Yes, ma'am." 

" Well, you did a dreadful wicked thing then. 
Go right back to bed." 

Ann Lizy went back to bed and to sleep. Re- 
morse no longer gnawed keenly enough at her 
clear childish conscience to keep her awake, 
now her sin was confessed. She said her pray- 
ers and Nvent to sleep. Although the next 
morning the reckoning came, the very worst 
punishment was over for her. Her grand- 
mother held the judicious use of the rod to be 
a part of her duty toward her beloved litde or- 
phan granddaughter, so she switched Ann Lizy 
with a little rod of birch and sent her forth full 
of salutary tinglings to search for the bead bag 
and the patchwork. All the next week Ann 
Lizy searched the fields and road for the miss- 
ing articles, when she was not cutting calico 
patchwork by a thread and sewing over and 
over. It seemed to her that life was made up 

of those two occupations, but at the end of a 
week the search, so far as the bead bag was 
concerned, came to an end. 

On Saturday afternoon the parson's wife 
called on old Mrs. Jennings. The sweet, gen- 
tle young lady in her black silk dress, her pink 
cheeks, and smooth waves of golden hair 
gleaming through her worked lace veil entered 
the north room, which was the parlor, and sat 
down in the rocking-chair. Ann Lizy and her 
grandmother sat opposite, and they both noticed 
at the same moment that the parson's wife held 
in her hand — the bead hag ; 

Ann Lizy gave a little involuntary "oh"; her 
grandmother shook her head fiercely at her, 
and the parson's wife noticed nothing. She 
went on talking about the pinks out in the yard, 
in her lovely low voice. 

As soon as she could, old Mrs. Jennings 
excused herself and beckoned Ann Lizy to fol- 
low her out of the room. Then, while she was 
arranging a square of pound-cake and a little 
glass of elderberry wine on a tray, she charged 
Ann Lizy to say nothing about the bead bag to 
the parson's wife. " Mind you act as if you 
did n't see it," said she; " don't sit there lookin' 
at it that way." 

" But it 's your bead bag. Grandma," said 
Ann Lizy in a bewildered way. 

" Don't you say anything," admonished her 
grandmother. " Now carry this tray in, and be 
careful you don't spill the elderberry wine." 

Poor Ann Lizy tried her best not to look at 
the bead bag, while the parson's wife ate pound- 
cake, sipped the elderberry wine, and conversed 
in her sweet, gracious way ; but it did seem 
finally to her as if it were the bead bag instead 
of the parson's wife that was making the call. 
She kept wondering if the parson's wife would 
not say, " Mrs. Jennings, is this your bead 
bag ? " but she did not. She made the call and 
took leave, and the bead bag was never men- 
tioned. It was odd, too, that it was not; for 
the parson's wife, who had found the bead bag, 
had taken it with her on her round of calls that 
afternoon, partly to show it and find out, if she 
could, who had lost it. But here, it was driven 
out of her mind by the pound-cake and elder- 
berry wine, or else she did not think it likely 
that an old lady like Mrs. Jennings could have 




owned the bag. Younger ladies than she 
usually carried them. However it was, she 
went away with the bag. 

" Why did n't she ask if it was yours ? " in- 
quired Ann Lizy, indignant in spite of her ad- 
miration for the parson's wife. 

" Hush," said her grandmother. " You mind 
you don't say a word out about this, Ann Lizy. 
I ain't never carried it, and she did n't suspect." 

Now, the bead bag was found after this un- 
satisfactory fashion ; but Ann Lizy never went 
down the road without looking for the patch- 
work. She never dreamed how little Sally Put- 
nam, the minister's wife's niece, was in the 
mean time sewing these four squares over and 
over, getting them ready to go into her quilt. 
It was a month later before she found it out, 
and it was strange that she discovered it at all. 

It so happened that, one afternoon in the 
last of August, old Mrs. Jennings dressed her- 
self in her best black bombazine, her best bonnet 
and mantilla and mitts, and also dressed Ann 
Lizy in her best muslin delaine, exquisitely 
mended, and set out to make a call on the par- 
son's wife. When they arrived they found a 
chaise and white horse out in the parsonage yard, 
and the parson's wife's sister and family there 
on a visit. An old lady, Mrs. White, a friend 
of Mrs. Jennings's, was also making a call. 

Little Ann Lizy and Sally Putnam were in- 
troduced to each other, and Ann Lizy looked 
admiringly at Sally's long curls and low-necked 
dress, which had gold catches in the sleeves. 
They sat and smiled shyly at each other. 

" Show Ann Lizy your patchwork, Sally," 
the parson's wife said presently. " Sally has 
got almost enough patchwork for a quilt, and 
she has brought it over to show me," she added. 

Ann Lizy colored to her little slender neck ; 
patchwork was nowadays a sore subject with 
her, but she looked on as Sally, proud and 
smiling, displayed her patchwork. 

Suddenly she gave a little cry. There was 
one of her squares ! The calico with roses on 
a green ground w-as in Sally's patchwork. 

Her grandmother shook her head energetic- 
ally at her, but old Mrs. White had on her 
spectacles, and she, too, had spied the square. 

" Why, Miss Jennings," she cried, " that 's 
jest like that dress you had so long ago ! " 
Vol XVII.— 7. 

" Let me see," said Sally's mother quickly. 
" Why, yes ; that is the very square you found, 
Sally. That is one; there were four of them, 
all cut and basted. Why, this little girl did n't 
lose them, did she ? " 

Then it all came out. The parson's wife was 
quick-witted, and she thought of the bead bag. 
Old Mrs. Jennings was polite, and said it did 
not matter ; but when she and Ann Lizy went 
home, they had the bead bag, with the patch- 
work and the best pocket-handkerchief in it. 

It had been urged that little Sally Putnam 
should keep the patchwork, since she had 
sewed it, but her mother was not wilhng. 

" No," said she, " this poor little girl lost it, 
and Sally must n't keep it ; it would n't be right." 

Suddenly Ann Lizy straightened herself Her 
cheeks were blazing red, but her black eyes 
were brave. 

" I lost that patchwork on purpose," said 
she. " I did n't want to sew it. Then I lost 
the bag while I was lookin' for it." 

There was silence for a minute. 

"You area good girl to tell of it," said Sally's 
mother, finally. 

Ann Lizy's grandmother shook her head 
meaningly at Mrs. Putnam. 

" I don't know about that," said she. " Own- 
in'-up takes away so}nc of the sin, but it don't 

But when she and Ann Lizy were on their 
homeward road, she kept glancing down at her 
granddaughter's small face. It struck her that 
it was not so plump and rosy as it had been. 

" I think you 've had quite a lesson by this 
time about that patchwork," she remarked. 

" Yes, ma'am," said Ann Lizy. 

They walked a little farther. The golden- 
rod and the asters were in blossom now, and 
the road was bordered with waving fringes of 
blue and gold. They came in sight of Jane 
Baxter's house. 

"You may stop in Jane Baxter's, if you want 
to," .said old Mrs. Jennings, "and ask her 
mother if she can come over and spend the 
day with you to-morrow. And tell her I say 
she 'd better not bring her sewing, and she 'd 
better not wear her best dress, for you and 
she ain't goin' to sew anv, and mebbe you '11 
like to go berryin', and play outdoors." 



•; ill-'; T r 

■■■' ■ v^...'/ \\ 1'" "'' '^' 


By Elizabeth Balch. 

BEAUTIFUL old place called 
Hinchingbrooke, situated near 
the ancient town of Hunting- 
don, was in a flutter of ex- 
citement one bright sunny 
morning two hundred and 
eighty-six years ago, in the year 1603. 

King James I. of England, with a large retinue 
of the nobles of his court, was to visit the more 
distant possessions of his kingdom ; and in order 
to break the journey from London to the north, 
a ver\- long and trying one in those da\s, he had 
announced his royal will and pleasure that a 
halt should be made over night at Hinching- 
brooke, a favorite resting-place for the sovereigns 
of that time when making a "royal progress," 
as their journeys were generally called. 

With the King was to come the little Prince 
Charles, a delicate boy four years old, and this 
fact had gi\en old Sir Henry Cromwell, the 
" Golden Knight," who was the owner of Hinch- 
ingbrooke, more anxiety than anything else con- 
nected with the royal visit. 

'• His Majesty can ride and hunt, and amuse 
himself with the noble game of chess, or with 
the sprightly conversation of the fair dames who 
will be only too proud to entertain him ; but 
how we are to amuse a baby jjrince, is more 
than I can imagine." 

To every one he met the good knight would 
repeat this dismal exclamation; but at last a 
happy thought came to his mind, and summon- 
ing a lad, he hastily penned a few lines, and 
bade the page cany them to his son, Robert the 
brewer, in the town of Huntingdon. 

" Be off wdth you," the knight cried cheerily 
to the page, " and let not the weeds grow be- 
tween the stones of the old wall before you are 
back again with grandson Oliver," Oliver was 
a little boy not much older than the prince him- 

As the page quickly sped away upon his er- 
rand, a well-satisfied expression came over the 
countenance of the doughty knight, and he 
rubbed his hands contentedly together while 
he mused to himself aloud. 

* The illustrations of Hinchingbrooke House, and of the old Gateway, are drawn, by permission, from photographs 

by A. Maddison, Esq., Huntingdon, England. 



" Not so badly devised, by my troth. The 
lads may take kindly to one another, and if 
Oliver makes a friend of the little Charles — who 
knows? — a king's son is not half a bad friend 
for a young fellow to have." 

Flags were flying from the towers and battle- 
ments of Hinchingbrooke, while the royal stand- 
ard of England floated proudly above the gray 
old buildings which formerly had been a nunnery-; 
and in the spot where holy women once had 
prayed, soldiers in gay uniforms now laughed 
and joked, while richly dressed courtiers and 
numberless attendants crowded the court-yards 
and corridors, and horses in rich trappings filled 
the stables. Every part of the establishment 

the grand old trees, where perhaps the warmth 
of the golden sunshine might bring a more gen- 
erous color into the pallid face. 

In striking contrast to the delicate prince was 
the lad Oliver. Strong and sturdy, with bright 
red cheeks and a round fat face healthily browned 
by fresh country air, he came gravely and slowly 
through the old arched gateway, not in the least 
intimidated by the glittering uniforms and gay 
attire of all these grand people, and quietly ad- 
vanced to the spot where the King stood, hold- 
ing the hand of the little Charles. 

Sir Henry, the " Golden Knight," with a deep 
reverence to his sovereign, presented his grand- 
son Oliver. The baby prince took off his velvet 




.showed signs of unusual life and excitement, all hat with its long white plume, and bowed gra- 

being anxious that the King should be pleased, ciously to the boy who looked so strong and 

and that the pale little prince, who looked so healthy, yet who was so curiously grave. Oliver 

fragile and delicate, should play happily under could not bow in a courtly way as Charles 




did, but only went awkwardly forward, when his 
grandfather, placing a hand upon his shoulder, 
tried to make him bend his short, fat legs before 
youthful royalty. 

The King with one hand patted the closely 

-.i3ra«,,.».'.«.X...i~.. ' Y.} 


cropped head of the knight's grandson, while 
the other rested on the golden curls of the baby 
Charles, his heir, and with a cheery smile he 
bade the boys go play together, and told them 
to be friendly one with another. 

Holding out his tiny hand to the silent, sturdy 
Oliver, the litde prince clasped the other's strong, 
brown fingers in childish confidence, and the 
two passed out under the gray stone gateway 
■with its carved figures of ancient Britons sup- 
porting the arch. Out they went into the lovely 
park beyond, where the sunshine danced merrily 
in and out among the branches of the trees, 

playing hide-and-seek with the quivering leaves, 
and the grass was spread out like a soft green 
carpet, upon which the children could play as 
merrily as the birds above them sang. 

The attendants talked among themselves, cast- 
ing glances every now and then toward the 
daintily clad little prince, whose curls were shin- 
ing like gold in the sunshine, and whose pale 
cheeks flushed with pleasure as the other boy 
told of the rabbits which sometimes ran across 
the park, and promised that, if the litde visitor 
would keep very still, some of these rabbits would 
surely come, and then they could jump at them, 
frighten them, and chase them across the grass. 

Young princes are not taught to be patient, 
and Charles soon tired of waiting quietly for the 
rabbits. He proposed that Oliver should be 
harnessed with some fine silk reins and driven 
with a silver-mounted whip which was among 
the toys the prince's attendants had brought 
from London. 

But Oliver was unwilling to be harnessed and 
flatly refused to be whipped. Unused to opposi- 
tion, the prince grew petulant and, at last, in a 
teasing way, half struck young Oliver across the 
shoulders with the lash of the new whip. 

Oliver's brown face grew crimson, and doub- 
ling his fist in a threatening manner, he turned 
upon the royal child saying angrily: 

" You shall riarr drive me, nor whip me with 
your stupid little whip ! I will not allow it ! " 
And then, before the prince could answer, the 
angry boy struck him full in the face with his 
clenched fist. A moment later the attendants, 
startled by loud cries, came running up, and were 
horrified to see the blood streaming from the 
prince's nose over his pretty lace collar and 
velvet frock. 

Oliver was sent home to Huntingdon in dis- 
grace, and all the pleasant visions of good Sir 
Henry faded away, for surely now his grandson 
could never make a friend of Charles Stuart. 

And yet, many great things had been pre- 
dicted for the boy. When he was an infant 
asleep in his cradle, one summer day at Hinch- 
ingbrooke, a pet monkey had crept into the 
room, and, carefully lifting up the baby from his 
bed, had carried him to the roof of the house. 
All the household were terrified, and quickly 
brought beds and mattresses, that the child might 



fall unharmed should the monkey drop him. The 
sagacious animal, however, brought the little 
fellow safe back again. But had he dropped the 
baby over the stone battlements upon the rough 
ground below, the fate of King Charles might 
have been a very different one. 

The wise men of the day professed to believe 
that this extraordinary adventure \\'ith the monkey 
was a sign that the child would do great things ; 
and when, some years later, Oliver insisted 
that in a dream he had seen a tall man who 
came to his bedside, and, opening the curtains 

of his bed, told him he should one day be the 
greatest person in the kingdom, these wise men 
were more than ever con\inced that a great 
future was in store for the remarkable boy. His 
father told him that it was wicked, as well as 
foolish, to make such an assertion, for it was dis- 
lo)'al to the King to even hint that a greater 
than he could exist in the land ; but Oliver still 
persisted in saying that the vision was true, add- 
ing that the tall figure had not said that he 
should be King, but only " the greatest person 
in the kingdom." So vexed was his father with 





him about this silly tale, that he told Dr. Beard, 
the Master of the free grammar-school which 
Oliver attended in Huntingdon, to punish him 
well, and see whether flogging would not drive 
these foolish ideas out of his head. Even after 
floggings, however, the boy continued at times 
to repeat the story to his uncle Steward, although 
his uncle also told him that it was little less 
than traitorous to relate the prophecy. 

While Oliver was at this grammar-school, ac- 
cording to ancient custom a play was acted by 
the pupils. The one chosen was an old comedy 
called " Lingua," and no part in it would satisfy 
Oliver Cromwell save that of "Tactus," who 
had to enact a scene in which a crown and 
other regalia are discovered. This scene seemed 
peculiarly to fascinate him. 

During this period, when Oliver's mind was 
thus dwelling upon mimic crowns, the boy whom 
he had once struck that hasty blow under the 
shady trees at Hinchingbrooke, had become heir 
to a real crown, by the death of his elder brother 
Prince Henry. 

Having now grown from a sickly child to be 
a high-spirited, handsome youth, with his friend 
the Duke of Buckingham he had traveled to 
Spain in search of adventure, and also in order 
to see the young Spanish princess whom the 
King, his father, wished him to marry. On their 
way the two j-oung men stopped in Paris. There, 
at a masked ball, they saw the lovely Henrietta 
Maria, sister of the French king ; and after this 
there was no possibility that the Spanish Infanta 
should become Queen of England, for Prince 
Charles could not forget the fair face of the 
French beauty ; and in course of time Henrietta 
Maria became his wife. 

All this time the boy Oliver, also grown to 
man's estate, lived on in the quiet town of Hunt- 
ingdon, near the beautiful jiark where he had 
played with the baby prince, and where he had 
refused so stoutly to be the child's horse, and to 
be driven with the silken reins and the whip with 
the silver bells. 

The good old grandfather, the " Golden 
Knight " Sir Henry Cromwell, was dead and 
buried, long since, and could no more rebuke 
his grandson for his hasty, unjdelding temper. 
There had been another roj-al visit to Hinch- 
ingbrooke, with great feastings and ceremonials ; 

but it was Oliver Cromwell (not the boy Oliver, 
but a son of the doughty knight. Sir Henry) 
who now reigned over the lordly house and 
lands, and this time the King had come without 
the prince, and the two bo)-s who once fought 
under the shade of the branching oaks were pur- 
suing each his own life, little dreaming how those 
lives should influence one another. 

It was while the King was at Hinchingbrooke, 
upon his second visit, that Oliver Cromwell's 
father, the brewer Robert, lay grievously sick, 
" somewhat indifterent to royal progresses," and 
in 1 6 1 7 he died, leaving his son — then about 
eighteen — as head of the little household at 
Huntingdon. Not long after, Oliver also, as 
well as Prince Charles, brought home a smiling 
young wife, and as the years passed on baby 
children played under the trees where he and 
the little prince had played — but let us hope 
there were neither doubled fists nor bleeding 

While Charles's life was a gay and stirring one, 
Oliver's was grave and quiet, and Oliver himself 
grew more and more solemn and silent, and 
finally he and other serious-thinking men decided 
that the King was a tyrant ; the country, he 
thought, would be better without him, and he 
joined these other discontented ones who thought 
the same, and who determined to make war 
against Charles, and the too merry, careless life 
which they thought he was leading. 

Sometime before, while yet a boy, Oliver had 
fallen into the river Ouse, which runs sleepily 
by the old town of Huntingdon; and the curate 
of a church near by, in the village of Conning- 
ton, who was walking on the river-bank at the 
time, pulled him out of the water, and saved 
his life. Afterward, when Cromwell marched 
through this town at the head of his troops, 
going to fight Charles Stuart, he saw and rec- 
ognized the curate who had been his rescuer, 
and asked, smilingly: 

" Do you not remember me ? " 

" Yes," answered the loyal curate ; " but I 
wish I had put you in the river rather than have 
seen you in arms against the King 1 " 

Cromwell thought it right to overturn the 
throne, and he did so. Whether his acts were all 
inspired by a desire to carry out the will of a 
Supreme Being, as he asserted them to be, is to 




this day a disputed point of history and will dream, and the vision of the tall man beside his 

probably remain so until the end of time. bed who promised that he should become the 

In 1627, beautiful Hinchingbrooke passed out " greatest man in the kingdom " ; and ambition 

of the hands of the Cromwells, and became the may have tempted him along the bold path he 

home of the noble family of Montague ; and, had chosen. Perhaps he thought that he was 

some four years later, Oliver Cromwell left really doing right in thus trying to make away 

Huntingdon and went to live at St. Ives, where with the authority of the King — who can tell? 


can still be seen the bridge across the Ouse about 
which was written the quaint old puzzle : 

" As I was going to St. Ives, 
I met a man with seven wives ; 
Every wife had seven sacks; 
Every sack had seven cats ; 
Every cat had seven kits. 
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives. 
How many were there going to .St. Ives? " 

During many weary years the struggle went 
on between King Cliarles and his Parliament — 
Oliver Cromwell joining with the latter, and be- 
coming one of the principal opponents of his 
sovereign. Perhaps he thought of his boyhood's 

It is always difficult to understand men's motives. 
Certain it is that the royal cause went from bad 
to worse ; the army of Charles was defeated and 
repulsed on every side, and the army of the 
Parliament, to which Cromwell belonged, was 
triumphant everywhere. 

Poor King Charles! He was no longer gay 
and happy, but sad and very miserable. His 
Queen secretly left England, and in a foreign 
country sold the beautiful crown-jewels which 
had been worn at so many splendid fetes and 
entertainments, in order to obtain money for her 
husband's soldiers. But it was all of no use ; the 
Parliament, with Oliver Cromwell at the head 



of its armies, finally conquered, and at last the 
King himself fell into the hands of his enemies 
and was held a prisoner. And now Cromwell 
determined that Charles Stuart, with whom he 
had once played as a little boy, should die. 

Before his death Charles was allowed to see 
his children, — the two at least who were in 
England at the time, — the Princess Elizabeth 
and the little Duke of Gloucester. After sending 
a message by his daughter to his wife, Henrietta 
Maria, whom he could never see again, the King 
took his little son upon his knee and said gravely 
to him : " My dear heart, they will soon cut off 
thy father's head. Mark it, my child, they will 
cut off thy father's head, and perhaps make 
thee a king. But, mark what I say, thou must 
not be a king so long as thy brothers Charles 
and James live ; therefore, I charge thee, do not 
be made a king by them." The brave child 
replied, " I will be torn in pieces first ) " Then 
the unhappy father gave the two his blessing and 
said good-bye. Even the stern soldier Oliver was 
touched by the grief of the wretched King and 
of the poor little prince and princess, who knew 
that they should never again sit upon their father's 
knee, or hear his voice, or see his face, .\fter this 
came a dark and dreadful day when the King 
was led out from the palace of Whitehall to die 
upon a scaffold. 

History has made the rest of the story familiar ; 
and very likely many of you have read the war- 
rant ordering the execution of the King, and have 
seen among the first of the signatures to it, the 
name of the King's former playmate, the son of 
the brewer of Huntingdon. 

As Oliver Cromwell signed his name in firm, 
clear characters to that cruel document, did he 
recall the sunshiny day at lovely Hinching- 
brooke, and the pale little prince who had held 
out his baby hand in such friendly fashion, and 
laughed so gleefully when the sturdy, brown- 
faced boy, with whom his father had bid him 
" be friends," told of the rabbits that sometimes 
scampered over the grass under the spreading 
trees ? Or did he remember the angry words 
he had spoken when the little child in turn had 
told of his silken reins, and his whip with silver 
bells ? And the blow he had dealt which made 
the blood flow and drew forth a cry of pain ? 
Then the cry had been soon hushed, but on that 
gloomy January day, in 1648, the King's head 
lay severed from his body, and Charles Stuart 
was silent for ever. 

The brewer's son continued his career until his 
dream came true ; for the day came when he could 
write his name as " Lord Protector of the Com- 
monwealth of England, Scodand, and Ireland." 

He was the " greatest person in the kingdom." 


By Helen Thaver Hutcheson. 

Dainty Allis, here 's a cricket, 
Trim and nimble, brave and bold. 

Caught a-chirping in a thicket, 
When the year was growing old. 

He 's a patient little hummer. 

Though he only knows one song ; 

He 's been practicing all summer, 
And he never sings it wrong. 

He was piping under hedges 
After all the birds had flown. 

Trilling loud from stony ledges, 
Making merry, all alone. 

If the bearded grasses wavered 
Underneath the lightest foot. 

His sharp murmur sudden quavered 
Into silence at the root. 

Now the cricket comes to bring you 
Cheery thoughts in time of frost; 

And a summer song he '11 sing you 
When the summer sunshine 's lost. 

You '11 be listening till you 're guessing 
Pleasant meanings in the sound. 

May the cricket's good-night blessing 
Bring the happy dreams around ! 

Many and many a year hereafter 
You will hear the same blithe tune. 

For though you should outlive laughter, 
Crickets still wOl chirp in June. 

If some future summer passes 
Homesick, in a foreign land, 

There '11 be speech among the grasses, 
That your heart will understand. 

As you listen in the wild-wood 

To that merry monotone, 
It will bring you back your childhood 

When you are a woman grown. 

Vol. XVII.— 8. 


By Sophie Swett. 

HILE the other 
boys in Bloom- 
boro' were saving 
up their pennies to 
buy whistles and 
pop-guns and cara- 
mels, or base-ball 
bats and bicycles, 
according to their 
various ages and 
tastes or to the seasons, Tom Pickemell was 
always saving up to buy tools. Sometimes they 
were of one kind, sometimes of another. He 
had bought even farming tools, although he 
had the lowest possible opinion of farming. 
His grandfather seemed to think that farming 
was the chief end of man; he was determined 
that Tom should be a farmer whether he liked 
or not ; but he believed in good old-fashioned 
ways, and refused to buy any "new-fangled" 
machinery. Tom argued and argued, but his 
grandfather would not listen. He was scornful of 
all Tom's great undertakings in the mechanical 
line, and even Grandma, who usually had some 
sympathy with a boy, laughed until she cried at 
his idea of inventing a machine which should 
"instantly separate milk into its component 
parts." No tedious waiting for cream to rise, 
no slow and back-aching churning process. 
(Tom had reason to feel deeply on this point.) 
Almost in the twinkling of an eye the milk, as 
it came from the cow, was to be changed into 
butter and buttermilk. Cynthy, the hired girl, 
said it was "flyin' in the face of Proverdunce 
to talk like that," and was sure that a boy who 
did n't believe in churnin' would " surely turn 
out an infiddle." 

Tom knew that the great creameries had im- 
proved upon the old-fashioned chums, but their 
improvements were only child's play compared 
to what he meant to do. He kept on thinking 
over his plans, and experimenting as far as he 

could, in spite of every one's jeers, although he 
became so exasperated sometimes, when people 
would ?i't understand him, that he would lie 
down on his face in tlie pine grove, and dig his 
fingers into the soil, and kick. But that was 
when he was younger. He was fourteen now, 
and had discovered that it was better to fight 
manfully against obstacles than to kick the 
empty air. He had also begun to learn that he 
did n't know so much as he thought he did; 
and this was a very hopeful sign for Tom, for it 
is n't taught in the grammar-school books, and 
seems to be a neglected branch even at the 

He had begun to understand, also, why he 
was " a trial," as Grandma and Cynthy said. 
He could n't see but that a boy had a right to 
take things to pieces, if he put them together 
again ; but sometimes, quite unexpectedly, they 
failed to go together as they were before. This 
(as in the case of the alarm-clock, and Grandma's 
long-cherished music-box) was annoying, Tom 
candidly acknowledged. He felt so unhappy 
about those failures, that he forbore to remmd 
them, when they scolded him, that he had 
made Grandma's worn-out egg-beater better 
than when it was new, and repaired Cynthy's 
long-broken accordion, so that now she could 
enjoy herself, playing and singing "Hark, from 
the Tombs," on rainy Sunday evenings. 

It was a discouraging world, in Tom's opinion, 
but he was, nevertheless, still determined to in- 
vent, some day. The Instantaneous Butter-maker. 
Many, many times, in imagination, he had gone 
over all the details of a wonderful success with 
that invention, even to Grandpa's noble and 
candid confession (generally accompanied by 
tears) that he had misunderstood and wronged 
Tom ; but the details were becoming modified as 
he grew older ; he had begun to strongly doubt 
whether any such thing could ever be expected 
of Grandpa. There had been a schoolmaster at 




Bloomboro' for one winter, who held the con- 
soUng beUef that a boy might not be akogether 
a dunce although he was so " mixed up " in 
geography as to declare that Constantinople 
was the capital of Indiana, and was unable to 
regard English grammar as anything but a hope- 
less conundrum. Out of school he taught Tom 
geometry, and was astonished at his quickness. 
He even confided to Grandpa that he should 
not be surprised if Tom turned out a genius. 

But this had anything but the desired effect 
upon Grandpa ; for to his mind a genius was an 
out-at-elbows fellow who played on the fiddle, 
and eventually came to the poor-house. Grand- 
ma's idea was even worse : she said that if 
Tom's father had lived he would know how to 
bring Tom up so that he would n't turn out a 
genius, but she was afraid they should n't ; — 
she thought it all came of his mother being 
a Brown. 

But Grandma was too kind and sympathetic to 
be hard upon a boy, as Grandpa was. She laughed 
at him, and sometimes sighed dreadfully, — that 
was almost the hardest thmg for Tom to bear, — 
and occasionally confided privately to Grandpa 
that she "was n't -going to believe but that 
Tom would turn out as well as any boy, he was 
so kind-hearted and affectionate; and as for 
smartness, what other boy could make a fox- 
trap out of his own head? " Sly Grandma knew 
that Grandpa valued that fo.x-trap because it was 
useful on the farm, and so she kept it in remem- 
brance. Tom had no sjinpathizers among the 
boys. He hked Jo \Mupple best of any, but 
Jo was a famous scholar; he could recite whole 
pages of histor)' without missing a word; in dates 
you could seldom catch him tripping; he could 
see sense in' grammar, and he was going to study 
Greek with the minister. And Tom shrewdly 
suspected that Jo secredy thought him a fool. 
Jed Appleby was the only boy in Bloomboro' 
who had any interest in Tom's favorite pursuits, 
and Tom had painful doubts of his honesty and 
thought Jed meant to steal his inventions. So it 
happened that when Tom wished for that sym- 
pathy which is a necessity to most of us he was 
forced to seek it from Caddy Jane. 

Caddy Jane w^as his cousin, and she was an 
orphan, too, and was being brought up by 
Grandpa and Grandma. It was Tom's opinion 

that that process was less hard upon a girl 
than upon a boy — and perhaps he was right; 
nevertheless, Caddy Jane had her private 
griefs. Grandma dressed her as little girls were 
dressed when she was }'Oung, and the other girls 
jeered at her pantalettes. Then, too, Grandma 
did n't approve of banged hair; she said Na- 
ture had given Caddy Jane " a beautiful high 
forehead," and she was n't going to have it 
spoiled; so she parted Caddy's hair in the middle 
and strained it back as tightly as possible into 
the tightest of little braids at the back. Tom 
wondered, sometimes, with a sense of the hol- 
lowness of Ufe, if it were not that straining back 
of her hair which gave Caddy Jane's eyes the 
round, wide-open look which he took for won- 
der and admiration, when he showed her his 
machinery or told her his plans. It was cer- 
tainly quite doubtful whether Caddy Jane under- 
stood, at all. Tom, in his heart, suspected her of 
being a very stupid little thing, but she had this 
agreeable way of looking with round-eyed, open- 
mouthed wonder at one's productions, and 
would listen silently and with apparent interest 
to the longest outpouring of one's interests and 
plans ; and if this is not sympathy it is certainly 
not a bad substitute for it. And if Caddy Jane 
was a little stupid, well, — it would be uncom- 
fortable not to be able to feel superior to a girl, 
Tom thought; and if she had been quick at her 
lessons he knew he should not have hked her half 
so much. Caddy Jane not only found geography 
hard, but she was struggling with skepticisms as 
well. She did not believe that the earth was 
round, because, if it were, why did not the China- 
men fall off? Once when Grandpa had taken 
her with him to market, at Newtown, she had 
slipped, all by herself, into a Chinaman's laun- 
dry and asked him if he could walk head down- 
ward, like a fly, and the Chinaman had positively 
disclaimed any such abiUty. This (to Caddy 
Jane's mind the only possible solution of the 
m)-stery) ha^ing failed, she felt that there was 
nothing for a rational mind to do but to resign 
itself to a bold and dreadful doubt of the Geog- 
raphy. This seemed so reckless, and her trouble 
was so great, that she confided in Tom; although 
she was, as her grandmother said, " a dreadful 
close-mouthed little thing." The doubt grew 
still more painful when she discovered, through 




Tom's jests and evasions, that he knew no more 
about it than she. He said he could n't stop to 
explain it, and a girl need n't bother herself 
about such things, but she might ask Jo Whip- 
ple. To Whipple! — who made most unpleasant 
faces at her through a hole in the fence, and 
whooped dismally in the dusk while she ran 
across the field to carry the Scammons' milk 1 
Caddy Jane felt that it would be quite impossi- 
ble to ask him, and, moreover, she did n't believe 
that he knew any more than Tom, and said so, 
which was very gratifying to Tom. When one 
is conscious of being generally regarded as a 
dunce, it is agreeable to have even a silly little 
thing like Caddy Jane believe in one. So Caddy 
Jane was a real consolation to Tom, and there 
was no drawback to the pleasure of their meet- 
ings, except the fact that Caddy Jane's boots 
were almost always squeaky (Grandma believed 
in good, stout, economical ones), and Tom's en- 
terprises were so strongly disapproved of that 
he was obliged to carry them on in the privac}- 
of the old granary, which had been abandoned 
to rats and mice and weather. 

It made a great stir at the farm when, one day, 
a letter came from Cousin David Creighton, ask- 
ing if his wife and daughter might spend the sum- 
mer there. He was going to Europe, and his 
wife wanted to be where she could have perfect 
rest from excitement and gayety, and he wanted 
Dulcie (" that is the little girl, I suppose," 
Grandma said, adjusting her glasses for the 
twentieth time in her excitement as she read the 
letter, "though of all the names I ever heard 
of — ! ") he wanted Dulcie to have cows' milk and 
country fare generally, and to get acquainted 
with Bloomboro', where he had been a boy. 

Cousin David Creighton had been a very 
poor bov in Bloomboro'. He had been father- 
less and motherless and homeless, sheltered here 
and there, where any one would have him, and 
"bound out" to the miller; he had picked ber- 
ries to pay for his \\'inter shoes, and known the 
physical and mental trials of outgrown jackets 
and trousers. And then, suddenly, he had taken 
his fortunes into his own hands, and slipped away 
from Bloomboro'; and scarcely any one cared to 
inquire where he had gone, and for years no one 
knew. The miller's wife had a theory that he 
had died of overeating, for she never knew a 

boy to have such an appetite. When his name 
began to appear often in the New York papers 
that found their way to Bloomboro', the old men 
would look at one another and wonder if it 
could be the one. The doubt was ended when 
a commercial traveler, who knew all about David 
Creighton, appeared at the Bloomboro' hotel. 
It ivas their David, and, according to the com- 
mercial traveler, he could buy a gold mine every 
morning before breakfast, if he cared to, and 
carried two or three of the great railroads in his 
pocket. Grandpa said he 'most wished he had 
given David a dollar «'hen he went away. He 
had thought of it, when he saw him tjang up his 
bundle, but he was only a kind of second cousin, 
and he^ had been afraid, too, that he would n't 
make a good use of it. And Grandma said 
David's story was " like a made-up one in a pic- 
ture-paper, and it seemed kind o' light-minded 
to listen to it." But the Bloomboro' boys 
listened, and the heart of many a one burned 
within him. 

David's wife was a fine city lady ; the com- 
mercial traveler had heard wonderful reports of 
her diamonds and her turnouts. Grandma was 
afraid she would put on airs, and not be satisfied 
\\-ith anything ; but Grandpa said he did n't " see 
how they could refuse, bein' 't was relations " — 
besides, crops had been poor for two years and 
the bank-account was running low. Grandpa 
thought much about that. 

-So the letter was sent, saying that David's wife 
and daughter might come ; and Caddy Jane 
scarcely slept a wink three nights, for thinking 
and wondering about Dulcie, who was just nine, 
as she was ; but Tom did n't trouble himself 
in the least about the expected guests, having 
weightier matters on his mind. 

He had been at work for months, in his spare 
time, on a miniature threshing-machine of his 
own invention. Grandpa was so discouragingly 
old-fashioned as to believe in a boy and a flail 
as a threshing-machine. In Tom's opinion the 
horse-power threshing-machines, which some of 
the Bloomboro' farmers boasted, were not much 
better. His machiner}' was somewhat compli- 
cated, and he had not yet quite decided whether 
the motive power should be steam or electricity, 
though he had leanings toward the latter. He 
had kept many midnight vigils in the old gran- 




ary, with no company except now and then a 
bright-eyed, inquisitive mouse, and he thought 
in about a week or two he should finish the 
machine to his satisfaction. It was dishearten- 
ing to find that Caddy Jane had transferred her 
interest almost entirely to the expected guests. 
And Jo Whipple was continually urging him to 
go fishing. A boy who thought great thoughts 
must think them alone, Tom reflected, bitterly. 

Cousin David Creighton came to Bloomboro' 
with his wife and daughter. They brought a 
French maid, their pug-dog, and a great amount 
of luggage ; but, nevertheless, Caddy Jane and 
even Grandma herself were somewhat disap- 
pointed at the appearance of the party, for they 
did n't look in the least as if they came out of a 
fairy-book, as Caddy Jane expected, or even a 
picture-paper, they were so plainly dressed ; and 
Grandma felt sure they had on their best clothes, 
because no one in Bloomboro' would think of 
wearing an}'thing else on a journey. And 
Grandma thought Dulcie such a queer, " out- 
landish-looking " little girl, with her hair down 
to her eyes, and her dresses down to her shoes 
and far too short-waisted. Grandma hoped she 
could have the Bloom'ooro' dressmaker " fix her 
up a little " before the minister's wife called. 

Although they were both nine, Dulcie and 
Caddy Jane looked askance at each otheh It 
was onl)' when, the day after the arrival, Dulcie 
needed sympathy in a great trouble that the ice 
was broken between them, and they irmnediately 
became great friends. Dulcie's dearest doll, 
Jacquetta, had been carelessly packed, and a 
heavy box pressing upon her had maimed and 
disfigured her for life. 

Caddy Jane went fl)ing through the wood- 
shed that afternoon, with Jacquetta under her 
arm, to meet Tom. " O Tom, you never saw 
anything like her ! Such a beauty ! and she feels 
orfley ! She cried and cried, and — you don't 
think you could mend her, do you, Tom ? And 
anyway I want you to hear her talk ; that was n't 
broken, and it 's almost enough to frighten you, 
and oh 1 Tom, what is the matter ? " 

Caddy Jane's tone suddenly changed, for she 
discovered, as Tom came nearer, that his face 
was pale and his eyes so dark that they looked 
unlike Tom's soft, blue ones, and his teeth were 
set tightly together ; altogether he looked almost 

as if he were not Tom at all, as Caddy Jane 
said to herself. She had never seen him look so 
but once before, and that was when Samp' Peters 
set his fierce dog upon Tom's white kitten, and 
the kitten's back was broken. 

" Do tell me what it is, Tom ? " said Caddy 

Tom set his teeth more tightly together, and 
then, suddenly, it came over him that it would 
be a relief to tell Caddy Jane. It always was, — 
perhaps because she was such a foolish little 
thing ; she never gave any advice. Tom did n't 
like ad\dce when he felt miserable. 

" They were going over the farm. Grandpa 
and Cousin David Creighton," began Tom, in a 
strained, high-keyed voice, which he tried very 
hard to keep calm and steady. " Cousin David 
wanted to see the places that he remembered. 
I did n't think they would go into the old gran- 
ary, it 's such a tumble-down old place, but they 
did, and Grandpa rummaged around. He saw 
some of my tools — I '\e got careless since no- 
body ever goes there — and that made him sus- 
pect. I was away down on the edge of the 
swamp when I saw them in there ; you 'd bet- 
ter believe I ran ! When I got to the door 
Grandpa had my model in his hand. I screamed 
out. I don't know what I said, but I tried to 
tell him what it was. I thought if I could make 
him understand that it would do more in five 
minutes than two men in a week! — but it was 
of no use ; he had that smile on his face that 
just maddens a fellow. He threw my model 
down on the floor and set his foot on it." 

" Oh, Tom ! " Caddy Jane stepped upon some 
wood to make her taU enough, and put her arm 
around Tom's neck. Tom shook her off, after a 
moment; he thought the fellows would call him 
" a softy " if they should see her. But Caddy 
Jane knew that he was not displeased, for he 
went on to say, not without a little choking in 
his throat : 

" And that is n't the worst, Caddy Jane." 

"O Tom, what could \iQ worse?" cried Caddy 

'• That man — Cousin David Creighton — 
acted as if he meant to be kind ; he picked up 
the pieces and looked them over ; he stayed after 
Grandpa had gone out; and he asked me about 
the machine. And he said I had made a mis- 




take. I did n't believe him at first, but he showed 
it to me. Caddy, it would n't have gone, any- 
way ! " 

"But you could have made it right, Tom! 
You can make it over and make it go ! " cried 
Caddy Jane, with intense conviction. 

" He said I did n't know enough : that I was 
too ambitious; that I must learn things first. 
And it 's true ! That 's the very worst of it ! I 
don't believe I shall ever make anything that 
will go. I may as well dig potatoes all my life, 
as Grandpa wishes me to." 

" Oh, Tom, you will make things that will go ! 
I know you will," cried Caddy Jane. "You 
would n't think such wonderful things unless 
you could do them. Things will go wrong just 
at first. I thought I should never learn to heel 
and toe off, and now you can't tell my stockings 
from Grandma's. And you are so smart," she 
added quickly, feeling it presumptuous to com- 
pare herself, in any way, to Tom. "And oh, 
Tom, there are so many troubles I Dulcie has 
cried and cried. Just look here! Her beauti- 
ful nose all flattened, her eye dropped out, her 
cheek crushed in, and her dear arm broken off! " 

Caddy Jane held up the melancholy wreck 
of a golden-haired wa.\ doll. 

" Pooh ! girls' rubbish," growled Tom, think- 
ing that Caddy Jane was going to be much less 
satisfactory, now that this new girl had come. 

" But listen, Tom ! " 

" Pa-pa ! " " Mam-ma ! " said the golden-haired 
doll, not in a faint voice, as one might e.\pect 
from her condition, but quite distincdy. 

Tom fairly jumped; talking dolls were quite 
unknown to Bloomboro'. Then he seized the 
doll eagerly from Caddy Jane's hands, and 
squeezed it again and again. 

" I wonder how they do it I I wonder what 
the machinery is like ! " he exclaimed. " She 's 
all smashed up, anyway. That girl would n't 
mind if I should take her to pieces, would 

Tom had quite forgotten his troubles for the 
moment ; his face was all aglow. 

'■'■Oh, Tom!" Caddy Jane's accent was full of 
horror. " I don't know what she would say. She 
says she thinks just as much as ever of her. 
And she feels orfley because, she says, she has 
neglected her lately for a colored doll that was 

given her in Boston. She 's only made of kid, 
and she 's got raveled yarn for wool, and bead 
eyes, and she 's not so very much better-looking 
than my old Dinah ; but she never saw a col- 
ored doll before, and she thinks she is perfecdy 
fascinating ; that 's what she says, ' perfectly fas- 
cinating ' ; and her name is Nancy Ray, and 
she says if she could only talk, like Jacquetta — " 

Tom was gazing at Jacquetta with speculative 
and longing eyes. 

" You might leave her here. I will mend her 
arm some time," he said, with an assumption of 

" Oh, I could n't do that. You might take her 
to pieces — of course you would n't mean to, 
but you might without thinking — and perhaps 
she would n't go together again ! " said Caddy 
Jane, with a vivid recollection of some of Tom's 

" You 'd better take her away just as quick 
as you can. She might get a scratch — such a 
handsome new doll ! " sneered Tom. 

Caddy hesitated. She could never bear to 
have Tom cross, and he was looking dejected 

" I might ask Dulcie if she would like to have 
you mend her arm," she said. 

" Well, go along, and don't keep talking about 
it. It is n't worth while," said Tom, crossly. 

Caddy Jane was back in a minute. 

" She says she does n't care. They 're mak- 
ing a new red dress for Nancy Ray, Dulcie 
and the French woman are, and I think Dulcie 
is almost forgetting about Jacquetta." 

" Leave old Jacket here, then," said Tom, 
quite restored to good-nature. " And, I say, 
Caddy Jane, you might get up a httle picnic for 
that girl. It would be nice to go down to 
Plunkett's pond and stay all day." 

Caddy Jane caught readily at the idea. She 
said she would go, this very minute, and see 
what Grandma thought about it. She looked 
back wistfully at Jacquetta. Although she was 
nine, Caddy Jane still had the feelings of a 
mother toward dolls, and she strongly suspected 
that Jacquetta was about to be sacrificed to 
Tom's spirit of investigation. And there was 
the dreadful doubt whether she would go to- 
gether again! But Caddy Jane struggled against 
her feelings, for Tom's sake — poor Tom, whose 



precious model had been crushed under Grand- 
pa's heel ! 

Tom, the moment he was alone, thrust Jac- 
quetta under his jacket, as far as she would go, 
and set out for the old granary. A half-hour 
before, he had said to himself that he could never 
bear to enter that place again; but now he pushed 
aside the ruins of his model with only a dull 
pang of remembrance, so absorbing was his 
curiosity about this wonderful new machinery. 

He mended the arm first. It seemed a great 
waste of time ; but that girl might take it into her 
head to want the doll suddenly, and she might 
make a fuss and cry. She was evidently not a girl 
like Caddy Jane, whom a fellow could put in her 
proper place. It is to be feared that the mend- 
ing of that arm did small credit to Tom's me- 
chanical skill; it certainly was a very hurried 
performance. And when it was done he care- 
fully locked the granary door, and proceeded to 
discover what made Jacquetta say "Papa" and 
" Mamma." 

He worked for a long time, and sometimes his 
forehead was puckered up into a very hard frown, 
and several times he uttered a little exclamation 
of satisfaction. Once he longed so much for 
Caddy Jane that he was tempted to go in search 
of her. He had made a discovery which he 
wished so much to tell to some one. 

He had taken the machinery all apart, and he 
could put it together again; he would have 
liked to have Grandma and every one know 
that ; but it did seem a great pity to fasten it up 
again in that old ruin of a doll. 

Suddenly so bright an idea struck Tom that 
he threw his cap up among the cobwebby beams 
of the granary. " I '11 go and stir Caddy Jane 
up about that picnic. I '11 make her have it 
to-morrow. I can't wait," he said to himself 
" Nobody could blame a fellow for trying such 
a scientific experiment as that." He quite sur- 
prised Grandma by his zeal in making prepara- 
tions for the picnic, as he was not at all in the 
habit of being attentive to guests, and had shown 
a strong inclination to run away from " that 
girl." When the morning of the picnic came, 
Grandma thought he seemed more like himself, 
for he steadfastly refused to go. 

" That boy is up to something ; 't is n't any 
use to tell me ! " Cynthy sagely remarked, as 

Tom prowled restlessly about the house, evi- 
dently in search of something. 

At length, in a secluded comer of the piazza, 
he seemed to find what he sought and ran off 
with it to the old granary ; and nothing more 
was seen of him for that day. 

The picnic party returned late, and although 
it was plain to Caddy Jane's e.xperienced eye 
that Tom had something on his mind, he did not 
confide in her. She observed that he continu- 
ally cast an.xious glances at a certain corner of 
the piazza ; and when Grandma had sent him 
out to find a stray chicken which was peeping 
disconsolately in the tall grass, she went to see 
what there could be in that comer. But she 
found nothing except Nancy Ray, sitting in the 
carriage which had been poor Jacquetta's, just 
as her mistress had left her. She did not think 
it possible that Tom could have any interest in 
Nancy Ray ; it was not long ago that he had 
terribly wounded her feelings by letting all the 
sawdust run out of her first doll, in an investi- 
gating spirit, and since then he had shown only 
scorn of dolls. She would have liked to ask him 
about Jacquetta, but he gave her no opportunity. 

Early the next morning Dulcie went across 
the field with Caddy Jane, on an errand to Mrs. 
Scammon. As they passed the old granary, 
Dulcie caught sight of a bit of striped ribbon 
fluttering from the top of a tall thistle near the 
door. " It is Jacquetta's belt ! " she exclaimed. 
" I should know it anywhere. Oh, my poor, 
dear Jacquetta! I wonder if he has mended 
her arm. This is the little house where you 
said he works, is n't it ? Let us go in and see 
if we can find her." 

Caddy Jane objected, but Dulcie had already 
pushed open the door. And it was quite use- 
less, as Caddy Jane had found already, to object 
to anything that Dulcie wished to do. She 
opened drawers and peered into boxes and 
barrels, while Caddy Jane, filled with an.xious 
forebodings, begged her to come away; and 
at last, at the same time, they both caught sight 
of some golden locks, a waxen cheek, a col- 
lapsed, dismembered body ! These fragments 
lay on a table, in a heap of rubbish partially 
covered with shavings. 

" Oh, oh, that cruel, wicked boy ! he has broken 
her all to pieces ! And she was the very dearest 



doll I ever had ! And you said he would mend 
her ! Oh, how could I trust you ! Oh, my poor, 
dear Jacquetta ! " 

Dulcie's grief waxed louder upon reflection. 
She heaped reproaches upon Caddy Jane. She 
ran toward the house, in spite of all Caddy's 
entreaties, crying with grief and rage. Caddy 
saw, with a sinking heart, that Grandpa and 
Dulcie's father were standing together upon the 
piazza. Grandpa would be very angrj'. Tom's 
passion for taking things to pieces was the one 
thing with which he had no patience. And he 
had especially enjoined upon both Tom and 
Caddy to be very polite and attentive to the 
guests. Oh, what would happen to Tom ? 

There he was now, coming around the cor- 
ner of the house, just in time to see the doll's 
mangled remains in Dulcie's hands, and to hear 
her woful complaint, poured out with tears and 
sobs. Grandpa's face was like a thunder-cloud, 
and when he asked Tom, in a dreadful voice, 
what he had to say for himself, Tom would not 
answer a word. He was in one of his sullen 
moods, and, indeed, it «as not of much use to 
try to answer Grandpa when he was in that 
state of mind. And Dulcie's father looked as if 
he were very sorry — for his little girl, of course, 
Caddy Jane thought. 

" And I never knew a doll that could talk 
before, and he 's broken it right out of her 1 " 
sobbed Dulcie. 

And then a sudden inspiration seized Caddy 
Jane ; she had them sometimes, though she was 
such a foolish little thing. 

She flew along the piazza and seized Nancy 
Ray out of the carriage, pressed her to her 
bosom, and uttered a cry of joy. She thrust 
her into Dulcie's arms, while Dulcie ceased her 
sobs in astonishment. 

" Papa ! " '• Mamma ! " said Nancy Ray. 

" Oh, oh, she can talk ! " cried Dulcie, becom- 
ing a rainbow. " What does it mean ? She was 

the nicest doll I ever had, before," — (Oh, false 
and fickle Dulcie !) " and now she 's perfect ! Oh, 
did you do it ? " (to Tom, who tried to look in- 
different.) " It 's too bad that I called you an 
orfle boy when you are such a nice one, and 
can do such wondt-rful things. And Jacquetta 
was only a broken old thing." 

Tom was beginning to talk to Dulcie's father; 
Grandpa had walked away, with something like 
an amused look upon his face. Tom was ex- 
cited and talked eagerly. It was a comfort to 
explain that machinery to some one who seemed 
to understand and be interested. And there 
was one httle point where he thought an im- 
provement might be made — it might be less 
compUcated. He hesitated before saying this, 
because he thought Cousin David might find 
some mistake again, or perhaps laugh at him. 
But he did n't ; he seemed to consider the 
matter seriously, and asked a great many ques- 
tions, and at last said that he should n't wonder 
if Tom were right, and if Tom would work ujj 
his idea so that it could be seen he might pos- 
sibly secure a patent for it ! He thought those 
talking dolls were not made in this country, but 
he would see what could be done with it abroad ; 
sometimes a little thing like that amounted to a 
great deal. And, anyway, he had become so 
convinced of Tom's mechanical ability, that he 
was going to ask Grandpa's consent to Tom's 
going to New York in the fall, where he would 
give the boy a technical education. 

Tom was so overcome that he only colored, 
and gasped, and looked at Caddy Jane. And 
Caddy Jane, being only a foolish little girl, 
cried. But I think Cousin Da\'id felt that he 
was receiving gratitude enough. 

" I never expected anybody would believe 
in me till I 'd made an Instantaneous Butter- 
maker or an improved phonograph, or some- 
thing great," said Tom ; " and to think it 's 
come about through a silly old doll ! " 


Bv Oliver Herford. 

Persons of the Drama. 

Mr. Thomas Cat. Master Tommy Cat. 

Mrs. Thomas Cat. Miss Fluffy Cat. 

Sir Rat. 


Scene : The barn. A haskef in one corner. 

Master Tommy ( looking out of the basket). 
How very big the world is, after all ! 
Compared to it our basket seems quite small. 
We never dreamed, dear Fluffj-, till our eyes 
Were opened, that the world was such a size. 
I 'd like at once to see it all. Let 's go 
And take a stroll around it. 

Fluffy. No! No! No! 

Mamma expressly told us not to stray 
Outside the basket while she was away. 
Something might hapj)en if we disobeyed. 


Oh, you don't dare, of course, — you are afraid ! 


Suppose — oh, dear ! — suppose we meet a 
Vol. XVII.— 9. 


Suppose we do, dear Fluffy, what of that ? 
/ will protect you with my strong right paw. 
The sight of me would fill a Rat with awe. 

Fluffy. Would it ? 

Tommy. Of course it would. I 'd rather 
like to see 
The Rat who 'd dare to trifle once with me. 
I do not think he 'd live to trv it twice 1 


You are so brave I 
To see the world - 

It reallv would be nice 

Tommy. It will be grand. Here goes ! 
There, take my paw, and jump. So, mind 
your toes ! 

(Fluffy fumps.) 
Xow we are off. Tread softly, Sister dear. 
If we 're not careful all the world may hear. 

Fluffy (starting). 

Oh, dear, what was 
that noise ? I wish we 
'd stayed — 

Tommy (trembling). 

Be brave, dear Sister. — see. / '/« n'-n'-not 

Whatever happens, do not make a row ! 




Sir Rat. 



(Enter Sir Rat.) 
Aha ! what 's this ? 
Help! Murder 1 Mi-o\v-^7<:'! 

Tommy, be calm ! Uear Mr. Rat, good-day. g,^ -^^^ gg jone with follv, Kitten ! Now at last 

Sir Rat (jumping up and do7vn). 

Enough! enough! I ihd not come to i>lay ! 


Dear Mr. Rat, liow beautifully you dance. 

Sir Rat. You flatter me. 

Fluffy (aside). It is my only chance. 

,^7J7 Tommy.) 
Run, Tommy! run! and bring dear Father-cat, 
While I remain and flatter Mr. Rat. 

(Exit Tommy /// haste.) 
(To^xv. R/\T.) 
It 's very plain you learned that stc]) in France. 
I wish, dear Rat, you 'd teach me how to dance. 
Sir Rat. 

I do not often dancing lessons give ; 
But since you have n't very long to live. 
And you are so polite, this once I '11 try. 

Your time has come. Reflect upon your past! 


It won't take long my past life to unfold! 
In sooth. Sir Rat, I 'm only nine days old. 

^ €. 


Sir Rat. Peace, Kitten! Hold thy peace! — 
thy time is past. (Springs upon her.) 

Thanks! thanks, dear Rat,— one Fluffy. Miow ! Miow ! 

dance before I die. 

(Polka Music. 
Sir Rat dances 
and Eluffy ap- 

Fluffy. Bravo ! 
Sir Rat, I 
ne\'er saw 
Such perfect 
W'on't )ou 
dance once 
more ? 

(Enter Mr. and Mrs. Cat and Tommy.) 


(■■^ \M 





Mr. Cat. Aha! Sir Rat, at last 

I have thee; and this barn will soon, I trow. 
Be rid of such a Ruffian Rat as thou ! 

( They fght. Sir Rat falls.) 

Mr. Cat (s/icathing his claws). 

'T is well I hastened ; had I not, I fear 
\Ve soon had seen the last of Fluffy dear ! 


Oh, dear, to think what might have been her 

Fluffv (aside). 

I learned that polka step, at any rate. 

Mrs. Cat. 

But luncheon 's waiting. Come into the house. 

Your father 
caught to- 
day a line 
spring mouse. 

And, cliildren, 
when I tell 
you nut to stray 

From home, in future do not disobey ! 



By Emma W. De.meritt. 

iOMETHING must have 
happened. Father ought 
to have reached home two 
hours ago." 

Tom Ely's face wore a 
troubled look as he glanced 
uneasily toward the door. 
He was sitting by a blazing fire in the rough room 
of a lumberman's log shanty upon the shore of 
one of the large Adirondack lakes. Beside the 
rough fireplace, at the head of a pile of skins 
and coarse, woolen blankets, stood Tom's gun, 
his Christmas present from his father. On the 
other side, with the polished steels glistening 
in the firelight, hung his skates, for this active 
lad of fifteen was the champion skater of the 
Saranac region. There was hardl)' anything 
which Tom could not do on ice. He could go 
forward or backward, wheeling and circling 
witli all the ease of a swallow in mid-air. So 
swiftly could he skim along the ice that his 
father used laughingly to boast that — "while 
any other skater was going one rod, Tom could 
easil)' skate around him twice." 

The lumbering-camp had broken up that very 
day. After weeks of hard work, the great trees 
had been cut down and the logs dragged to the 
water's edge, waiting for the yearh' spring rise 
in the rivers to float them to the mills. There 
Avas nothing more to be done until the breaking 
up of the ice. Most of the men had gone di- 
rectly to their homes in the settlements. Ten or 
twelve of them, however, had spoken of stay- 
ing for a day or hvo at a shanty on the second 
lake below-, with the hope of securing some 
deer, and Tom's father concluded to stay be- 
hind at the main camp for a few days, thinking 
that if he should set his traps he might succeed 
in getting a few skins to make warm tippets and 
muffs for Tom's mother and litde sister. 

Soon after dinner, leaving Tom to cook the 
supper and gather some firewood, the father 

shouldered his rifle and started out for a tramp. 
By sunset, Tom had piled up the wood in one 
corner of the cabin, and then he set to work to 
prepare supper. He placed the big tin plates 
and cups on the rough, pine table, and, taking 
down a ham which was hanging from the ceiling, 
cut oft" a few sHces and put them in the frying- 
pan, and very soon an appetizing hot meal was 
smoking on the hearth ; but still his father did 
not come. 

Tom was a Httle homesick, sitting there all 
alone. He thought of his snug home in the set- 
tlement, and fancied just how his mother and 
little sister looked as they stood in the door- 
way watching him and his father setting out for 
the lumbering-camp. Even now, his mother's 
parting words rang in his ears — "Tom, my boy, 
take good care of your Father." \Miat if any- 
thing had happened to his father ! 

Tom started to his feet and, running to the 
door, opened it and stepped out in the bright 
moonlight. It was a clear, cold night, and the full 
moon was just rising above the dark line of forest. 
He stood listening for a moment, and was turn- 
ing to enter the cabin, when he heard a footstep. 
He raised a whistle to his lips and sounded a 
shrill, piercing note. It was the camp signal, 
and after a brief pause came the answering 
whistle. But it sounded strangely faint and 
quavering. Tom wondered at this, and won- 
dered still more as he heard a halting, uncer- 
tain step on the frozen ground — a step utterly 
unlike his father's long, steady stride. 

The next moment a tall figure tottered down 
the bank behind the shanty, and, by the light of 
the moon, Tom saw his father's pale, hag_gard 
face. " Don't be frightened," said the wounded 
man in a hoarse whisper as the boy darted up 
the bank and saw the scorched and blood-stained 
jacket-sleeve and the strong arm hanging limp 
and helpless. " My foot slipped — the rifle was 
loaded — and went off — the ball shattered my 




arm and lodged in my side — I thought 1 never 
should get home." 

Tom managed to lead his father into the 
cabin, where he sank down on the pile of skins 
in a sort of stupor. After rubbing the cold hand, 
and forcing a few spoonfuls of hot coffee be- 
tween the white lips, Tom had the satisfaction 
of seeing the sufferer open his eyes and look up 
with an attempt at a smile. 

" It 's pretty hard for you, Tom," he groaned. 
" I feel better now. The loss of blood made me 
•dizzy. What are you going to do ? " 

" But if the men should n't be there ? " 
" Then I '11 keep on to the settlement." 
" No — no — no!" came in quick, short gasps; 
"there 's another danger — wo/ves." 

Tom looked up with a sudden thrill of fear. 
" Have you seen them, Father ? " 

" Yes, Tom, — only a little way from here, — in 
some snow in a hollow there were tracks. Being 
an old guide I could n't mistake 'em. The 
winter has been long and sharp, and hunger has 
made them bold. It is many years since they 
have been seen around here." 



" Going for help," replied Tom promptly. He 
Tose, put on a thick, woolen jacket and took up 
his fur cap. 

The father shook his head. "No, no; — it 
won't do, my son." 

" But I inusf. Father ! Don't look so worried. 
It 's only a step to the river ; then down the 
stream, over the pond, and along the river again 
— then whiz! across the big lake to the shanty 
where the men are ! That 's all." 

Tom's cheeks blanched. He knew well that 
it was no play to face a hungry wolf, or per- 
haps a pack of them, in that grim, lonely 
wilderness. He hesitated, and then came the 
remembrance of his mother's charge, "Tom. 
take good care of your Father." His mind 
was made up. 

"I can't take my gun," he said aloud, "for it 
would only be in the way, but the knife will 
be just the thing." He twisted a thick scarf 




around hi.s waist, and fastened the long-bladed 
iiunting-knife securely in his belt. 

'• Tom, you not go,'' moaned his father. 
" I can't let you risk your life to save mine ! " 

" I must go. Father, if there were forty wolves 
in my way." The boy knelt down by his father's 
side and stroked the cold hand. " It 's dreadful 
to leave you," — here he nearly broke down, but 
managed to choke back the rising sobs, — "still, 
it 's the only way. You might die without hel|i, 
and what could 1 sa)' to Mother ! Keep up 
your courage, Father. I 've fixed the fire so that 
it will last, and here 's the cotilec right by your 
elbow. I '11 be back soon." Here the boy 
breathed the prayer, " God help me ! " 

In a moment more, Tom had fastened the door 
with a stout staple and was kneeling by the lake, 
buckling on his skates. As he glided from the 
shores he cast a hurried glance around. Both 
his eyes and ears were strained to the utmost. 
How black the shadows were along the shores '. 
How sharp was the " click, click," of the skates, 
as they carried him on w ith the steady motion 
of a machine! The river was soon reached, 
and the half-mile over its frozen surface was 
easily made, as were the two miles across the 
little pond. \\'hen he followed again the frozen 
course of the river he skated backward, as his 
fa(x' was benumbed from going against the wind. 
He stopped several times for breathing-spells, so 
that he felt quite rested as he swept out of the 
river to the smooth, level floor of the great lake, 
at the lower end of which was the hunters' cabin. 
For two miles down the lake, Tom skated quite 
slowly, as he was keejjing his strength for the 
final dash. With body erect, head thrown back, 
and arras crossed on his chest, he glided in 
long, easy curves now to the right, now to the 
left. As he reached the shelter of a little island 
he paused for a short rest. Then he buckled on 
his skates more firmly, but just as he was taking 
a long breath in order to start again, a prolonged 
mournful howl broke the stillness of the night 
air. It was the sound which he had been 
dreading and expecting ! His first impulse was 
to save himself by climbing one of the large trees 
near by. Then he thought of his mother's part- 
ing charge. ''That would be looking out for 
myself, and she told me to take care of Father," 
he murmured. He hastily pulled off his jacket, 

felt for his knife, and tightened the scarf around 
his waist. " You '11 have exercise enough to 
keep you warm, Tom Ely," he muttered between 
his set teeth ; and then he shot forward like an 
arrow from the bow. How tlie ice rang under 
the cjuick, fierce strokes of the skates ! How 
swiftly the shores ghded by ! 

The boy paused a moment to look over his 
shoulder. On the ice near the shore was a small, 
black speck, growing rapidl\- larger. The wind 
had swept the last light fall of snow from the 
center of the lake into windrows on both 
sides, and there it had frozen, making a rough 
surface on which the wolf found a sure footing. 
Tom increa.sed his speed, but that long, tireless 
gallop, never for an instant faltering nor loitering, 
was gaining rapidly on him. Already the lean, 
shaggy brute was within a few yards, and the 
bo)- heard an angry snarl as the creature made 
a fierce spring at him. Quick as thought, Tom 
wheeled suddenly to the right, and the wolf 
rolled over and over on the ice, while the skater 
sjied on, gaining several rods by this trick. 

In a moment, however, the furious beast was 
uj) again, and a second desperate race began, 
and a second time Tom escaped the sharp, white 
teeth. By this time the boy's heart was beating 
like a tri])-hammer. His breath came in quick, 
short gasps, and he was conscious of a (]ueer 
feeling of weakness about the knees. His heart 
sank within him as he looked back and saw his 
enemy again on his track. " I can't keep it up 
much longer," he thought. "A little twig or 
roughness on the ice — and it is all over with me." 
He raised his white, despairing face toward the 
heavens with a swift, short prayer. Just then he 
caught a glimpse of a low point of land at the 
left. Tom's blood tingled at the sight ! Below 
were the hunters' cabin and the stout lumber- 
men ! " What if the men had gone on to the 
settlement ! " — and the boyish voice broke into 
a sob. 

.'\ few strokes of the skates brought him to the 
point, with the wolf close at his heels. Tom 
raised his whistle to his lips and blew a piercing 
blast. In another moment he had dodged the 
wolf again, and as he swept round the point 
he saw the open door of the cabin and the 
blazing fire within. He heard a dozen answer- 
ing whistles, the hoarse baying of dogs, the sharp 



crack of a rifle. He mustered strength to tell 
his story, and then a faintness came over him and 
he tottered into the arms of a strong lumberman. 

The ne.xt that he knew, he was lying on a 
pile of skins by a bright fire, with several strong 
men bending over him. One of the hunters 
was saying, " I 'd give a good deal to own a boy 
hke that. Talk of heroes — why that fifteen- 
year-old chap is the biggest hero of 'em all." 

Tom looked up ; he said only, " Father ? " 

" P'our of the men have gone to the settlement 
for a doctor, half a dozen more, with old Hodge 
amongst 'em (and he 's as good as a doctor any 
time), are on the way to your father, and as soon 
as you are able, we '11 take you up with us." 

" And the wolf? " Tom .sank back shuddering. 

" His hide is over yonder in the comer ; one 
of the men says that he is going to dress the 
skin for you. It will be the jjroudest trophy 
of your life, I reckon." 


By John Russell Coryell. 

In one of the cages of the zoological gardens 
at Central Park, there is a miscellaneous and 
rather incongruous collection of birds, made up, 
as it would seem, of the odds and ends of the 
feathered portion of the menagerie; for it in- 
cludes such dissimilar birds as the wood-duck, 
the egret, the sickle-bill, a chicken with no bill 
at all, a crow without any tail, a dilapidated ad- 
jutant-bird, a roseate spoonbill (which spends 
the greater part of its time in standing on one 
of its spindling legs), a curassow, and several 
other equally ill-assorted fellows. 

Except a sulky heron, which seemingly passes 
its gloomy life in nourishing a passionate hatred 
for the tailless crow, these chance companions 
associate very amicably together, bearing each 
other's whims and fancies with philosophy and 
good temper. And it must need a large supply 
of both those virtues to get along in so mixed 
a company ; for each bird follows the bent of 
his natural habits without regard to any other 

Some of the results of this condition of affairs 
are more amusing to the spectator than to the 
actors ; as, when the sickle-bill becomes ])os- 
sessed by the idea that something of great value 
to him is hidden under the hen without a bill. 

and that he must relieve his curiosity by remov- 
ing the hen. Accordingly he thrusts his long 
bill under that patient bird and lifts her uncere- 
moniously out of the comfortable dust-hole she 
has made for herself. 

Many of the pranks played in that cage are, 
however, so imbued with an air of conscious 
humor and enjoyment that it is hard to believe 
that they are not meditated jokes. The crow, 
for example, is always a funny bird ; but this 
particular crow has the manner of a bird that 
knows itself to be funny and even seems to con- 
sider the loss of its tail a very laughable thing. 
Not that it has any appearance of laughing. 
Far from it. Like a professional joker of the 
first order, it is solemnity itself. So, too, is the 
adjutant-bird, which combines with the crow to 
make fun for the cage. And when this incon- 
gruous pair are in a mischievous mood there is 
certain to be fun. 

One day, when the crow was hopping about 
the cage in its misguided way, — misguided for 
lack of a tail, — it noticed the pair of pretty little 
wood-ducks contentedly eating some scraps of 
meat. The adjutant-bird stood in seeming slum- 
ber, a picture of solemn ugliness. The crow 
skipped by the adjutant once or twice, with a 



knowing cock of the head, as if inviting that 
solemn bird to some fun; but the adjutant only 
opened one of its eyes in a way inexpressibly 
sly and then shut the eye again and took no 
further notice of its fellow mischief-maker. For 
a moment the crow looked doubtfully at its big 
friend, well knowing the adjutant's wily ways, 
and then with a series of sidling hops made up 
to the wood-ducks, cocked its head leeringly at 
them, snatched a piece of meat and scurried 

laughter. The hilarity they caused seemed to 
spur on both birds, as applause inspires actors, 
and the feathered comedians continued their 
drollery for round after round. 

Of course there is always fun in the monkey 
cage, but probably the sense of humor is not 
more developed in the monkey than in many 
other animals. The elephant, for example, can 
enjoy a joke as much as an)' animal. Mr. Mer- 
edith Nugent, the artist, tells of one of these 


off. The crow buried that piece and came back 
for more and yet more, until there was no more 
to be had. Then the crow- returned to his 
buried treasures and unearthed and re-buried 
them very gleefull\-. But now it was the turn 
of the adjutant. It slowly stretched itself and 
then stalked to where tlie crow was making his 
rounds of inspection. .\s the crow would bury 
a piece of meat, the adjutant would dig it up 
and leave it exposed; thus undoing the work of 
the crow as often as the latter would perform it. 
And so they continued around and around the 
cage, the one burying and the other unearthing, 
and all with such droll solemnity that the spec- 
tators about the cage were kept in roars of 

giant jokers noticed by him in the zoological 
gardens in Paris, while he was sketching there. 
This elephant had made friends wth the hippo- 
potamus and was permitted to visit the latter, 
and it was in the inclosure for the hippopota- 
mus that he developed a fondness for practical 
joking, which seemed to give him peculiar 

He would reach over the big tank when the 
hippopotamus was lolling in the water, sud- 
denly catch one of the little ears of the latter 
with the finger of his trunk and give it so mis- 
chievous a tweak that the huge river-horse would 
roar out and angrily open his huge mouth. Then 
the hippopotamus would be upon his guard and 




sink out of sight, to come up again further away. 
But, for all his seeming anno)'ance, he apparently 
liked the fun himself; for, when he had come up 
to the surface quite too far away for the elephant 
to reach him, he would sink and try again to re- 
appear just out of reach of the waving trunk. 
The elephant evinced his enjoyment of the sport 
by swaying to and fro in the manner of his kind, 
and occasionally, too, he would open his mouth 
in a comical resemblance to a laugh, — though 
it must be said that the resemblance is purely 
accidental, for though the elephant may laugh 
he does not do it in that way. 

Another joke enjoyed by this elephant was to 
stand over some particularly choice morsel meant 
for the hippopotamus, and thus prevent him from 
eating it — to tease him, in fact. So great was 
the elephant's enjoyment of this feat that he 
would not only sway to express his pleasure, but 
would make a rumbling sound which, with the 
elephant, is more than anything else indicative 
of delight. And the vexation of the hippopot- 
amus was as evident as the enjo\-ment of the 
elephant. The hippopotamus knew he was power- 
less to coerce his friend, and so he would go away 
and sulk until it was the pleasure of the elephant 
to move from the coveted food. Occasionally, 
however, the elephant would pretend to leave 
it, and then return just in time to cheat the 

It was an Indian elephant that betrayed a 
taste for fun in this instance; but in the same 
menagerie there is another case known, in which 
an African elephant showed a similar disposition. 
Only, in this instance, the elephant caught a 
tartar and was temporarily cured of his jocular 
attentions. The African elephant had formed a 
friendship for a zebra; and, though the zebra 
was shy for some time, it yielded at last to the 
advances of its gigantic friend and permitted his 
caresses wthout giving way to paroxysms of 
fear. By and by the elephant became embold- 
ened and grew a little rough, pulling the sensi- 

tive zebra's legs and tail and ears. One day the 
zebra wearied of its ponderous friend's teasing 
and incontinently caught one of the elephant's 
great, flapping ears between its teeth and bit so 
hard and pulled so sturdily, that the elephant 
was fain to sue for mercy in a series of shrill 
trumpetings. Thereafter the big elephant was 
respectful as well as affectionate to the zebra. 

It ought to be said in the elephant's behalf, 
that he is not always so fond of joking at the 
expense of his friends. It is a singular fact that 
a friend or pet seems to be a necessity to a cap- 
tive elephant. In most cases that friend is selected 
from among the smaller of the animals about it. 
Frequently the friend is a dog belonging to the 
keeper, and in many well-known instances a 
helpless, little human baby has been selected as 
the object of the elephant's affection. When 
the elephant's chosen friend is clearly help- 
less, the great beast has never been known to 
tease or injure it, even in fun. Its tenderness 
with a baby is one of the most pleasing sights 

Mr. Nugent tells also of a practical joke which 
he saw perpetrated by a tiger in the London 
Zoo, although it was really unintentional on the 
part of the tiger and rather grim in its results. 
In the cage next the tiger's, and hidden from his 
view by a board partition, was a tamandua, or 
ant-bear, a singular-looking creature that lives 
in its native country upon ants, capturing 
myriads of these little insects by means of an 
abnormally long tongue, coated with a sticky 
substance to which the ants adhere. This tongue 
the captive ant-bear often thrust out and moved 
about in an inquisitive way. In an evil hour it 
discovered a hole in the partition separating it 
from the tiger. The tiger was lazil}' stretched 
at length, one day, when this long tongue came 
into his cage. His first manifestation of dis- 
pleasure was an ugly snarl, his next a quick 
blow with its claw-armed paw. The ant-bear 
never repeated its experiment. 

Vol. XVII.— 10. 

When the trees 
are bare and Nature 
has drawn her fleecy snow-curtain over tlie spec- 
tacle of green field and flower-sprinkled hillside, 
we may naturally give a thought to the slumber- 
ing vitality under that soft white draper)-. The 
tenderest hearts will feel almost pity for the 
thousands of seeds and roots doomed to an icy 
bed during a long winter ; yet those same hearts 
will thrill with unalloyed delight at the snap- 
ping, crackling, frantic mass of popping com, — 
a live seed, every one, — although at each pop 
a grain is forced into grotesque and unnatural 
blossoming. The ear of corn has perhaps suf- 
fered a harder fate by being garnered and housed 
only to be roasted alive. But, notwithstanding 
there is life in each seed, just as certainly as 
there is in a hen's egg, we may be sure that the 
sacrifice of its tiny vital existence is absolutely 
painless ; and the more spiritual of us may reach 
a higher plane of satisfaction by accepting its 
pure white expansions, after the fatal heat, as 
metaphorical angels' wings. 

^Vhile we sit around the cozy hearth with red- 
dened cheeks, after the bombardment in our pop- 
per has ceased and the munching has begun, let 
us listen to a short story about this transformation 
which, in a twinkling, changes the yellow, stony 
little kernel into a tender, white, delicious morsel, 
monstrous and ragged. What is the power and 
process of this fantastic jugglery ? Like all 
white magic, it is simple when understood ; and 
knowing the secret, we may find intellectual 
pleasure also in what is so fascinating to the eye 
and so grateful to the palatg. 

Under favorable circumstances one may oc- 
casionally see, while po])ping com, little puffs 
of white vapor issuing from the popper. One 
might reasonably presume this to be steam or 
water-vapor ; but, in order to make sure of it, I 
popped half-a-dozen grains in a small beaker, 
the mouth of which was stopped loosely with a 
cork, holding the beaker over a gas flame. The 
result was the generation of so much steam that 
it hissed out around the cork and gave my fin- 
gers a lively sensation of heat. This seemed 
almost conclusive on that point, but it occurred 
to me to weigh the com before and after pop- 
ping, and this led to the discovery that more 
than ten per cent, of the weight of the corn is 
lost in the process, and this loss is doubtless the 
water which escapes. So that our popperful of 
com — a bulk between fifty and one hundred 
times as great as it was originally — really weighs 
less than when we started ! But this only half 
explains what takes i)lace when the grain ex- 
plodes. It is not quite plain why the expanding 
steam should puff the com out into a crisp white 
mass instead of blowing it to atoms, and the real 
inwardness of the matter will be apparent only 
by comparing the structure of the seed as Nature 
has finished it with its structure after it is popped. 
To do this, we must cut a very thin slice, thinner 
than this paper, through the middle of the grain 
of com, and magnify it very highly. Figure i 
shows a very small part of such a slice as it ap- 
peared under my microscope. If the whole 
grain could be seen enlarged to the same extent, 
it would stand higher than one's head and look 
like an immense bowlder. Now the whole grain 


is made up of little sacs, or bags, which botanists 
call '• cells," and the figure represents a group 
of these cells from the center of a grain of rice- 
corn as they appear in a slice, much in the 
same way as we see the sacs in a thin slice 
of lemon, only in the com they are, of course. 

far too small to be seen by the naked eye. 
The heavier lines show the boundaries of the 
cells. Each cell, of which there are thousands 
in the entire grain, is packed tightly mth little 
granules of starch. These are shown in the fig- 
ure completely filling up the cells, and it is to 
this compact arrangement of starch-granules that 
the com owes its hardness. Much the greater 
part of the grain consists of these cells crowded 
full of starch, although the remainder is really 
the most important, %-ital part : that is, the em- 
br)-o, which under proper conditions initiates 
the growth of the seed; the starch being merely 
a little store of food upon which the young shoot 
feeds until it is established and able to take care 
of itself. And, by the way, the cereals which 
are so extensively used as food are, like the com, 
largely composed of this same substance, starch. 
Understanding now what there is in the kernel 
of com, let us look at a thin slice of the same 
com after it is popped, and see if we can make 
out what has become of the cells and the starch. 
Figure 2 shows such a slice, magnified to the 
same extent as the first, as well as it can be 
represented by a diagram, for its delicacy and 
transparency can not be readily represented on 
paper. Here we have apparently a similar 
structure of cells; but compare their size with the 
other slice. They are smaller than the original 
cells and much larger than the starch-granules, 
so it is reasonable to conclude that these ap- 
parent cells are the starch-granules themselves 


swelled up by the steam. This is the fact ; so 
they are not cells at all in the botanical sense. 
Simple chemical tests prove that they are starch. 
But the granules are no longer solid ; they have 
been blown up into vesicles, or balloons, and the 
steam in forcing its escape not only ruptures 
many of the vesicles, but splits and tears its 
way all through the mass, making rifts and chan- 
nels leading to the air. Most of them are too 
minute, however, to be seen with the naked eye. 
The figure shows one of these rifts, and the ragged 
edges of the ruptured vesicles can be seen. On 
the right side, part of the broken cell-wall is in- 





dicated. Only the starchy part pops ; the em- 
bryo, of which I have spoken, simply shrinks 
and turns brown. 

We may yet speculate on the details of the 
process. In what condition is the interior of the 
grain just before it explodes ? The common ex- 
perience of the kitchen and laundry will help us 
here. In making up the mixture for stiffening 
clothes, the laundress puts starch into water and 
boils it, and we all know that in this process the 
starch loses its powdery character and becomes 
blended with the water into a pasty, translucent 
mass. The effect upon the individual starch- 
granule is a softening and considerable increase 
of its bulk and, finally, its rupture and diffusion 
through the water. While we can not see the 
inside of the grain at the critical moment when 
it has all but burst, we may, in view of what we 
now know, probably surmise the truth. Is it not 
very likely that, as the grain gets hotter and 
hotter, the moisture present in the cells, or in 
the starch-granules themselves, softens them first, 
and then, when the heat becomes too great to 
permit its remaining in the fluid state, it suddenly 
turns to steam, and the now plastic starch ex- 



pands in every direction forming the little vesicles 
shown in the figure, losing at the same time, of 
course, the moisture and thus becoming firm 
and brittle again ? 

This is the conclusion to which I have been 
brought, and I think of the wonderful physics 
of popped com with great satisfaction whenever 
I shake my popper over the glowing coals. 


By Hattie Whitney. 

What cheer is there that is half so good. 
In the snowy waste of a winter night, 

As a dancing fire of hickory wood. 
And an easy-chair in its mellow light, 

And a pearmain apple, ruddy and sleek. 

Or a jenneting with a freckled cheek ? 

A russet apple is fair to view. 

With a tawny tint like an autumn leaf, 

The warmth of a ripened corn-field's hue. 
Or golden hint of a harvest sheaf; 

And the wholesome breath of the finished year 

Is held in a winesap's blooming sphere. 

They bring you a thought of the orchard trees, 
In blossomy April and leafy June, 

And the sleepy droning of bumble-bees. 
In the lazy light of the afternoon, 

And tangled clover and bobolinks, 

Tiger-lilies and garden pinks. 

If you 've somewhere left, with its gables wide, 
A farm-house set in an orchard old. 

You '11 see it all in the winter-tide 
At sight of a pippin's green-and-gold, 

Or a pearmain apple, ruddy and sleek. 

Or a jenneting with a freckled cheek. 


By M. Helen Lovett. 

S AMMA ! Mamma ! " cried 
Kittie Perry, running 
into the house early 
one afternoon and 
throwing down her 
school - books, " the 
new people are mov- 
ing in next door." 

" So I see, Kittie," 
said Mrs. Perry. 
" And, Mamma, there 's a httle girl there just 
about as big as me. I just saw her going in. 
I 'm awfully glad ! I 'm 'most crazy for some 
one to play with since the Cooks went away. 
May Kingsley 's the only other girl on the 
block, and we 're having a tiff now. I 'm going 
right in to see that girl and find out what her 
name is." 

" Kittie ! " said her mother, catching her just 
in time as she was flying out of the room, " you 
must not go. The little girl's mother would n't 
like it. I 'm sure I should n't have wished the 
neighbors' children to come in here the day we 
moved. We had confusion enough without 

" But, Mamma, I must, for I need some one 
to play with, and May Kingsley and I are angry 
at each other and I can't speak to her for a 

" I 'm afraid you will not be able to do that, 
Kittie," said Mamma, laughing. 

" I 'm afraid not," said Kittie, with a sigh. 
" I '11 tell you how it was. I wanted to play 
jackstones, and May wanted to play paper dolls, 
and — " Mamma was trying to write a letter, 
but Kittie's tongue kept on pitilessly for ten 
minutes. Then she paused to take breath. 
" Well, that 's the reason I can't speak to her 
for a week. Mamma, and I must have some one 
to play with. So, Mamma, why can't I go in 
and see the girl next door ? " 

"I 've told you why, Kittie. And now you 

must not talk to me any more until I 've finished 
this letter." 

But Kittie kept on talking as she stood by 
the window, for to talk to herself was better 
than nothing. " There 's a sled ; that 's a girl's 
sled, and I don't see any other, so I suppose it 's 
the girl's. There are a doll's carriage and two 
dolls' trunks. Why does n't the man turn them 
so I can see better ? There ! Why, there 's a 
name on the end ! C-a — oh, I see, Carrie; no, 
Clara, — Clara L. Parsons. That 's a pretty 
name. Oh, dear ! I wish to-morrow 'd come." 

To-morrow did come, — that is, the next day 
did (some people say " to-nuvroiu does n't"), — 
but it rained, and Kittie could n't go out in the 
afternoon. Thursday, however, when she came 
home from school, her new little neighbor was 
sitting on the piazza with one of the trunks open 
before her, and a beautiful doll on her lap. 
Kittie glanced at her, and the little girl looked 
so friendly that Kittie nodded. Her neighbor 
nodded in reply. Kittie went up the steps. 
" Would n't you like me to come and play with 
you ? " she asked. 

The little girl looked as if she would, but did 
not make any reply. 

" She 's shy," said Kittie to herself. " How 
funny." Then aloud, "I '11 get my doll; only 
it is n't nice as yours. Shall I ? " The girl 

Kittie ran into her own home, and up to the 
play-room, where she snatched up her best doll, 
rejecting the second best as not grand enough 
to associate with Clara L. Parsons and her 

" Mamma," she called out, " I 'm going to 
play with the girl next door." 

" Did she ask you, Kittie ? " said Mrs. Perry, 
coming into the hall. 

"Yes, Mamma; at least, I asked if I should 
come, and she said yes. She would have asked 
me, I know, but she seems shy ! " 



" Well, you can go for a few minutes. Don't 
stay long." Kittie rushed off. 

The little girl was sitting with her back turned, 
and did not move until Kittie came all the way 
up the steps ; but then she gave a pleased look 
of welcome. 

" Here 's my doll," .said Kittie, sitting down. 
" It is n't as nice as yours, is it ? " Clara nodded. 
Kittie thought her a very polite girl, for Bella 
was only two-thirds the size of Clara's doll. 
" Her name 's Bella," she announced. " What 
is your doll's name ? I suppose Clara Parsons 
is your name, is n't it ? I see Parsons there on 
your door-i)late. Oh, may I look at the things 
in your trunk ? What a lovely party-dress ! Did 
you make it ? No, I guess you did n't, 'cause I 
see part of it 's made on the machine, and I 
don't suppose you can sew on the machine. 
Mamma wont let me touch ours. I made 
that blue dress, though, — almost all myself. 
What darling dolls' handkerchiefs, and oh, what 
lovely little visiting-cards! 'Stella Parsons'; 
is that her name ? Stella rhymes with Bella, 
does n't it? they ought to be friends; let 's 
introduce them." 

She held Bella up toward Stella, and Clara 
held up Stella and made her shake hands with 
her visitor and then kiss her. 

" Now they 're acquainted," said Kittie. " Let 
us pretend they have taken a great fancy to each 
other, as I have to you. 1 wish you 'd be my 
best friend, for I have n't one now. Fanny 
Cook used to be, but she 's moved away ; she 
lived in that yellow house across the way ; and 
May Kingsley is n't ; we get mad at each other; 
and she talks so much ; if you tell her a secret, 
everybody is sure to know it. Oh, my name 's 
Kittie Perry ; I did n't tell you, did I ? My 
brother's name 's Frank, and my sister's name 
is Amy, but they 're both big, nearly grown up, 
so I don't have any one home to play with. That 
lady at the second-story window is your mother, 
I suppose ? That 's my mother in a blue dress 
— on our stoop just now. That lady in brown 
that went in with her is Mrs. Fraim. She 's 
deaf and dumb. Did you ever know anybody 
who was ? It 's so funny to see them talk. I 
can say a few words. See. This means man ; 
this means woman ; this means dinner ; . tliis 
means a bouquet of flowers." 



Kittie made the morions as she spoke, and 
Clara, smiling brightly and looking pleased, 
made them too, but much more deftly and 
gracefully than Kittie. 

" And this means a baby with long clothes," 
continued Kittie. Clara shook her head, and 
made a motion a little difierent. 

" Oh, yes, that is it," said Kittie. " How 
quick you learn ! I '11 teach you some more 
some day ; then, if you ever meet a deaf person, 
you can talk to them. But it must be dreadful, 
must n't it ? — to be deaf and dumb, and not to 
be able to talk. Why, / '</ tiie .'" (I almost be- 
lieve Kittie would.) "And their language — 
why I could n't talk as much in a minute as in 
a week in our way — no, no, I mean in a week 
as in a minute. Oh, what are you doing ? " 

Clara had taken Bella and removed her dress. 
She then picked uj) the dress that Kittie had 
admired, and holding it against Stella showed 
that it was too small ; then buttoning it on Bella 
she laid the doll back in Kittie's lap and looked 
up with a smile. 

" Do you mean to give it to me ? " cried Kit- 
tie, delighted. " Oh, you darling ! It 's aw- 
fully pretty. Kiss the lady, Bella, my child. 
Now I ought to do something for Stella. Let 
me see, — when she has the measles, you send for 
me, 'cause I 've had experience. She '11 be sure 
to get them ; they 're very relci'ant this spring. 
Oh, dear, there 's Mamma calling me. Wait 
here, and I '11 be back soon." 

Mrs. Perry had called Kittie to go upstairs 
and try on her new dress, and this occupied 
nearly half an hour. When she returned to the 
piazza next door, Clara had gone and so had 
Stella and her trunk. Only Bella remained, 
sitting on the doorstep in the party-dress which 
had been presented to her, and holding in her 
lap a piece of paper on which was written, in a 
round, childish, but neat and legible hand : " I 
can't wait any longer for you. I 'm going out 
with Mamma. Come again to-morrow." 

Kittie came late to the tea-table that evening, 
and did not notice at first that everybody was 
very much amused at something. 

" Kittie," said Frank, " did you get acquainted 
with the girl next door ? " 

" Yes ; she 's awfully nice ; her name 's Clara 
Parsons. What made you call me in, that time, 



Mamma ? She said she could n't play much 
longer, she had to go out with her mother ; and 
when I came back she was gone." 

" Did you have much conversation with her? " 
asked Papa. 

" Yes, Papa ; I think I was there half an 

" It was more than an hour," said Amy. 
" I saw you. But I think you did all the 
talking yourself." 

Kiltie was indignant at this accusation, al- 
though it was not a new one. " It would n't be 
very polite to go and see a person and never 
say a word, would it ? " she said. 

" You '11 never be so impohte, certainly," said 

" And she gave me the prettiest dress for 
Bella. It was one that was in her doll's trunk, 
but it was too small for her doll. I '11 show it 
to you after tea." 

" Now, Kittie," said Mamma, " try to remem- 
ber the exact words she said about the dress, or 
about anything else you talked of." 

" The exact words," repeated Kittie, slowly. 
She looked thoughtful, then perplexed. " It 's 
queer, but somehow I forget the e.xact words." 

" Well, Kittie, we don't blame you. Mrs. 
Fraim was here this afternoon, and she was 
speaking about the family next door, the Par- 
sons. .She knows them very well ; and this little 
girl — her name is Clara — is deaf and dumb. 
She can't speak a word." 

Kittie dropped the biscuit she was eating, and 
the blankness which overspread her face was 
too much for the gravity of the family. They all 
laughed. ■ 

" So, Kittie," said Papa, " you must have had 


all the talk to yourself, and, if I know you, you 
must have enjoyed it exceedingly!" 

Kittie still looked so dazed that Mamma came 
to her assistance. 

" What did she say about going out with her 
mother ? " 

" Why — she wrote that; but that was because 
I was away." 

" And what did she say when she gave you 
the doll's dress ? " 

" She put it on Bella and handed it to me. 
Maybe she did n't say anything." 

" And did she tell you her name was Clara 
Parsons ? " 

'■ Yes — why — well, I asked her and she said 
yes; — no, I believe she nodded. She nodded 
quite often. But if she can't hear how could 
she tell when to nod ? " 

Kittie asked this triumphantly. 

" Mrs. Fraim says she is a bright little thing, 
and often can tell what people are saying by 
watching their lips ; and then perhaps she thought 
it was polite to agree with you even when she 
did n't understand." 

" Now perhaps you '11 believe how much you 
talk," said Frank. " I promise you ten cents if 
you keep quiet all the rest of tea-time, because 
I know you can't." 

" Yes, I can," said Kittie ; " but I 'm not 
going to." 

The other day, when I was calling on Mrs. 
Perry, I asked, " How is the little girl ne.xt door 
whom I heard about, Kittie ? " 

" She 's lovely," said Kittie. " I 'm going 
to have her for my best friend; I don't care 
who laughs. I can tell all my secrets to /u-r." 



By Frederick E. Partington. 

TELL of a shoe and a boy; 
of a bicycle and the river 
Rhine, — of the Rhine that 
creeps through a town 
where years ago the mayor 
and coq)oration, all for 
love of the children and the 
fear of a chance false note, 
banished all the hand-or- 
gans and the hurdy-gurdies 
beyond the city walls. And 
yet there is music still in the 
streets of the old town, — 
that same familiar, inces- 
sant, ringing melody rising 
forever from all the pave- 
ments of Northern Eu- 
rope, — the music of the wooden shoes. It was 
Gretchen who played on them as she galloped 
across the court-yard before sunrise ; it was the 
butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker 
who played on them as they clattered so early 
along the gabled streets of the city ; it was 
surely the fish-wives and the flower-girls and 
the milk-maids and blue-bloused Dieruimaniier 
who pounded them on the pavements of the 
market-place and sent up a symphony of 
clickity-clicks and laughter ; but better than all 
the rest, it was a thousand children, on a glori- 
ous afternoon, who rushed out of school — a 
common Volkschule — and made earth and air 
and sky ring with the music of their wooden 

The rain was over, the sun was bursting forth 
in floods of strange yellow light, and torrents of 
water rushed madly along the gutters. Verily, 
was there ever a ri\'er so mighty and delightful 
to boys as this sw-oUen street-tide after the 
storm ? How they go plunging to the depths 
of it I And how these hundreds of lads, \nth 
knapsacks on their backs, yelled with glee when 
they saw it. It was the work of a second to 
strip off the stockings and cram them into pock- 

ets along with the strings and the marbles, — the 
work of a second to do this, and, with a wooden 
shoe in either hand, rush to the flooded street 
and cry, " Who '11 have a race ? " 

"/£■// !—Ach-ja .'—Ich audi !—Ich — Ich ! " 
rang through the streets like the cries of the hot 
crusaders. Every boy and a hundred girls ac- 
cepted the challenge. And so, on either side 
the way, they ranged themselves, and into the 
rushing gutters launched their wooden shoes ! 
It was a sight for St. Nicholas ! Never since 
the carnivals of Venice or the day of the great 
Armada had there floated a fleet so wonderful 
as this! Hundreds and hundreds of shoes, — 
large ones, small ones, broad ones, and narrow 
ones, black and red and yellow and gray, some 
bright with the trappings of leather and brass, 
some hastily rigged with a pencil for mainmast 
and paper for a sail, but all of them buoyant and 
whizzing and careering along like the bouncing 
galleys of the olden time. The street rocked 
with excitement, and the excitement rose to 
battle-cries when, as in all great races, the 
shoes began to show individual qualities and 
fall into classes — the great craft scudding 
ahead and the smaller ones forging along in 
one mad mob behind. 

The course lay through the gutters of a long 
narrow street, unbroken by cross-ways for an 
eighth of a mile, when the rain-river suddenly 
ended by turning abruptly and diving into a 
sewer. This seemed to be generally known by 
the children, for they took good care to follow 
the shoes to the corner and snatch them up in 
time to save them from a very yawning and 
horrible abyss. 

The race of the big boats had finished ; the 
owners had rushed back to the start again, and 
now down the foaming torrent came bobbing 
and bumping away the fleet of younger craft. 
Litde mattered it to the children — the question 
of center-board sloops and cutters ! It was 
simply a fleet of chubby little smacks with 



pointed noses and fluted decks, and gay leather, '■Juch'" screamed the boys, "Oswald wins! 

and brazen nails around the gunwales. On Now grab thy shoe or thou 'It lose it!" 

came the yachts, on flew the children. A hun- It was the acme of genuine excitement. There 

dred feet, and the race is over. followed a wild scramble for the shoes. Oswald 


" See the little red-trimmed shoe," yelled a 
boy with eyes like saucers! "See! — it 's 
mine ! " 

" And see the black one with a sail ! " cried a 
girl, joyfully. " That 's mine ! " 

The race was clearly between the two. Fifty 
feet — thirty feet — twenty feet — ten! — and the 
red-trimmed one was far ahead ! 
Vol.. XVII.— u. 

the winner, frantic with joy, sprang forward to 
catch his own, when alas ! alas ! he tripped and 
fell ; and alas ! and ten times alas ! away shot 
the shoe, turned the fatal comer, and swish! — 
disappeared through the great black hole of the 
.sewer! Poor Oswald and his fellows stood dazed. 
Never in his whole nine years of life had Os- 
wald known a calamity such as this. 




" It 's gone ! It 's lost ! Ach ! It 's lost ! " he 
cried, wringing his hands while the tears rained 
down his cheeks. 

And there was no help for it. ^Vhat mattered 
it to Oswald even if some tender-hearted boys 

and wth the confused and liberal prompting of 
the e-xcited throng, he quickly told the story. 

Seth listened perplexed, till suddenly, all like 
a flash, came a thought to his bright little mind. 

" Hurrah ! " he cried almost aloud. And then. 


"*7 i/Ji > ^ 



t/iif offer him their marbles ? What mattered it 
even if a sweet little maiden ///</ try to console 
him and wipe the, tears from his eyes with the 
comer of her checkered ajiron ? Nay, the whole 
world was nothing, compared to that shoe. It 
was lost; and if be had to go home without it, 
he knew that he might as well have been lost 
himself. His grief was desperate, and sdll he 
stood weeping and still the children vainly 
offered sympathy, when round the comer ap- 
peared Seth Hardy on his bicycle. It was about 
the only one in the whole town where Seth was 
attending school, and there was not a boy or 
a girl to whom the magic wheel and its rider 
were not well known. 

'• See the Amcrikaner / " cried the crowd, as 
Seth came whirling along. 

He spied the troop of children, noticed Os- 
wald in tears, and stopped to leam the cause. 

" Ach ! mein Herr, it 's gone — lost ! " 

" What is gone ? " 

" My shoe, my shoe I " And between the sobs. 

with right forefinger in the palm of his left hand, 
— just as Herr Dr. N. of the school always 
did, — he reasoned it out so quickly that the Ger- 
man boys stood dumb with wonder. " Also ! " 
he continued, half in German, " gutter to sewer 
— sewer to — it must turn into Schumann 
.Strasse, run along Wilhelm Strasse, and then, 
bang I into the Rhine ! " 

And before a lad of them could say Jack 
Robinson in (ierman, off flew Seth on his 
bicycle toward the river. Scores and scores of 
children rushed panting and shouting after him, 
while httle Oswald Keller, with a lone shoe 
under his arm, dashed the tears away, and, 
though hardly realizing what it all meant, sped 
like a deer two rods ahead of them all. A whirl 
to the left, a spin of a block, a whirl to the right, 
and Seth had reached the Rhine. The rains 
of many days had swollen it to the danger point 
and the water was still rising. Another foot 
and, instead of the sewers rushing into the Rhine, 
the Rhine would be rushing into the sewers. 



Jumping from his wheel, Seth ran to the bank, 
peered up and down and caught the spot where, 
whiding in muddy commotion, the sewer met 
the river. Thither he flew, — the crowd with 
him, — when, just as he had snatched an oar for 
stopping the fugitive the moment it appeared, 
a hundred throats yelled in a tremble of excite- 
ment, " Ach ! The shoe ! The shoe ! " And 
lo ! out from the black hole and far into the 
stream shot the wooden shoe. Seth had not 
been quick enough, and now it was beyond his 
reach. He saw it whirl and whirl, and dally in 
an eddy ; and then, to his dismay and the grief 
of them all, saw it slowly enter the main current 
and speed away to the north. 

'■ Stay here," cried Seth excitedly to Oswald 
and the rest. "Stay here — I '11 soon be back," 
and jumping on the bicycle again, he laid his 
head close to the very handle and vanished 
down the road that wound along the river. 

" 'T is a race with the Rhine," he thought, 
" and it 's a poor wheel that can't win it ! " And 
away he went, till after a stretch of two miles he 

came to the bend and the village of L . 

The banks were lined with boats and the men 
were busy bailing out and scouring. 

"It 's a shoe!" screamed Seth, as, he came 
flying among them. " It 's a shoe! It 's coming 
yonder — this side the middle of the river — and 
I '11 give five marks to any man that picks it up ! " 

How many men leaped into their boats, and 
how many boats shot into the Rhine, or what 
the wives, and the people, and the kind old vil- 
lage priest, and the burly fat mayor all thought 
will never be known ; but the women stood 
wringing their hands, and the priest said some- 
thing solemn in Latin, and the mayor took out 
his note-book as if, indeed, a man were drown- 
ing. But Seth saw nothing except the boats. 


He saw them scatter, and it seemed to him as if 
they stretched away for miles. He saw them 
stemming the current and darting back and 
forth like fish ; and then of a sudden he heard a 
cry and saw the boats all inilling for the shoe. 
He saw — ah I joy of earth ! — it was the shoe ! 
and the boatmen coming reverently forward and 
mumbling, and bowing, and .stammering, and 
placing at last in his hands the precious little 
red-bound runaway. 

The mayor stared, the priest stared, the women 
stared. "And the body ?" they gasped. '-Where 
is the body? " 

Seth was too excited to explain. He flung 
the five marks to the man, jumped to his wheel 
again, and, while the people chattered and shook 
their heads, he vanished, it seemed to them, into 
the very skies above. 

And so he came speedily to where the chil- 
dren waited, and amid the shouts of bravo .' and 
blessings he restored the .shoe to little Oswald ; 
and then with the happy owner he went to the 
humble home and, telling the tale to the mother 
Gretchen, begged the shoes away for the price 
of a new and a better pair. 

And it came to pass after many, many months, 
when Seth had left school and had returned to 
his home in America, that everybody would ask 
about a funny little shoe that stood with the 
cups, and the vases, and the beautiful bric-a- 
brac in the nooks of a fine old library. It was 
the same wonderful shoe of which you have 
just been reading. I am sure it is the shoe, for 
here it is before my very eyes, with the same 
pointed toe, and the same fluted upper and 
the same gay leather and shiny brass nails that 
it had on the day when it sailed in the streets 
and under the ground and raced with a bicycle 
down the swollen Rhine. 






A WELCOME to US all, my hearers ! Wc all have 
been parted for a time, and now that November 
brings us together again in her crisp, sudden way, 
we may as well proceed to business as if nothing 
had happened. 

The birds, as you know, bring many pleasant let- 
ters to your Jack from friends all over the world, 
but seldom has so pleasant a letter been dropped 
on this pulpit as this which you now shall hear: 

Dear Jack-in-thf.-I'ii.pit : Are you aware that you 
have an Italian cousin, who lives at Mentone, and is 
called // Capiiccino / (the little friar.) There is a clois- 
ter near by, where some Capuchin friars dwell, and look 
out at the gay world from beneath their brown hoods. 
But this cousin seem to be a hermit as well as a friar, for 
he lives out-of-doors, all by himself When he preaches 
it certainly is in the Italian language. But he is not so 
fortunate as to possess a department of his own in a 
charming magazine ; and therefore it is probable he 
knows much more than he ever tells. His name is 
Brother .\rum .Arisarum ; and he has intrusted to me a 
little rhymed letter of greeting to his American cousin. 

E. C. 

I am a little friar. 

Beneath a wild-rose brier 
I tell my beads of dew. 

My cousin, I admire 

Your preaching, and desire 
To write some words to you. 

All in my pulpit green, 
Quite like yourself, I 'm seen 

When little people go 
Playing their games between 
The lemon boughs that lean 

From slopes of Monaco. 

'Tis strange they never task 
My skill, nor questions ask 

Such as to you they bring. 
My cowl might be mask 
Of zany, or a cask 

Empty of everything! 

They leave me here alone, 
A hermit by a stone. 

The shadowy woods within: 
I think they have not known 
A. friend to every one 

Is the poor Capuchin. 

Now if you should intend 
Some words to me to send, 

The birds, flying south, will bear 'em ; 
How gladly will I bend 
My hood to hear ! Your friend, 

F7-a Anttn Arisaniin. 

I thank you very much. Cousin Arisarum, for this 
fair greeting, and commend to you these thousands 
of good children who, like myself, have become 
true friends of yours through your gentle message. 
No longer shall you feel alone, "a hermit by a 
stone," for crowds and crowds of listening children 
will be near you, "the shadow y woods within," ready 
to catch the nod of your little brown hood. 

the knov^ing woodpecker. 

San Francisco, California. 
Dear Jack : In one of your pleasant talks I 
learned how Mexican birds store acorns for winter 
use. Here is an extract from a newspaper, in which 
it seems to me the birds show even more intelli- 
gence than their Mexican cousins. Do any of your 
California readers know it to be true? Avis. 

In California the woodpecker stores acorns away 
although he never cats them. He bores several holes 
differing slightly in size, at the fall of the year, invariably 
in a pine tree. Then he hnds an acorn, which he adjusts 
to one of the holes prepared for its reception. But he 
does not eat the acorn, for, as a rule, he is not a vegeta- His object in storing away the acorns exhibits 
foresight and a knowledge of results more akin to reason 
than to instinct. The succeeding winter the acorn re- 
mains intact, but, becoming saturated, is predisposed to 
decay, when it is attacked by maggots, which seem to 
delight in this special food. It is then that the wood- 
pecker reaps the harvest his wisdom has provided, at a 
time when, the ground being covered with snow, he 
would experience a difficulty otherwise in obtaining suit- 
able or palatable food. 


Have any of my hearers ever seen a live frigate- 
bird ? It is said that this bird is the swiftest flyer 
known. Read about him, my friends, and tell your 
Jack how he obtained this nautical name. Give. 
too, his highest record of speed according to good 


CERT.4IN boys hereabout have asked your Jack 
about a proposed bicycle road, — or, rather, path — 
from New York to Connecticut, for which they have 
been anxiously waiting ; but this pulpit could give 
them no information on the subject. Practical 
bicyclers generally skim by so rapidly that it is 
not worth while to ask questions of them ; and 
beginners usually are too much occupied, in pick- 
ing themselves up and getting on again, to take 
much interest in very long roads — so tidings of 



this new project liave been hard to obtain. Here 
comes a letter from Troy, however, which throws 
either light or darkness upon it, according to the 
way one takes it. 

Troy, X. Y. 
Dear J.\CK-i.\-THE- Pulpit : I am a boy and a bicycler, 
and therefore I hailed with delight a paragraph which I 
saw in the Portland Transcript, a good paper which 
sometimes is sent to us by a down-east relative. This 
is it : 

"Mr. A. G. Fisher, of New Haven, Conn., proposes 
to build a cinder path from New York to New Haven 
for the benefit of bicycle riders. It is to be three feet 
in width and laid at the side of the present road ; to be 
built, however, only where the existing roads are not 
good. The ]>ath will be about seventy miles in length, 
and the average cost of building is estimated at $75 jier 
mile, or a total of $5250. A little over ten per cent, of 
the amount has already been subscribed. The various 
bicycle clubs are expected to assist the enterprise." 

Now, I 'd like to know how this proposed road is get- 
ting on, and, instead of bothering Mr. A. G. Fisher, of 
New Haven, with the question, I think I '11 ask the wide- 
awake crowd around your pulpit if they can tell me any- 
thing about the project. Is it alive or not ? and if it 's 
alive, how is it? Your Aoung friend, T. G. H . 


Who among iny hearers can tell the origin of 
the words TINKER and ALMANAC? And why is 
an inn-keeper often called a LANDLORD ? 


De.\r Jack : I have read lately that the oldest rose- 
bush in the world, of which there is authentic record, 
grows in a church-yard, and against the old church at 
Hildesheim, Germany. The main stem is thicker than 
a man's body, but it has required over eight hundred 
years to attain this remarkable size. 

Have any of your "chicks " ever seen this huge rose- 
bush in bloom ? 

Yours respectfully, .\ Big Boy. 


A FRIEND, to whom many thanks are due, has 
sent you all the way from Nebraska a photograph 
of a dozen or inore of the finest pumpkins that 
ever gladdened human hearts on Thanksgiving day. 

There is noneedof your Jack giving you any agri- 
cultural rhetoric on this occasion. The puinpkins 
speak for themselves. One of them (probably 
the fine specimen in the lower left-hand corner) 
measured, I am told, exactly eight feet in circum- 
ference ; that is, it would take a string eight feet 
long to go around it. Well, well ! Thousands of 
you might have been supplied with pies, this 
inonth, from this one Nebraska field alone ! 

Before turning to another subject, let us thank 
the cheery-looking Nebraskan, in the corner, for 
giving us an opportunity to compare the relative 
sizes of vegetable and man. 


/- •» ... 

'' : ^v:i|-^=r?\^ 


■ A i.kNM as I J^t,\l»L.K 


Bv Anna H. Bkanch. 

I LiKK to sit beside a wall 
Among the grasses green. 
And think, if over I should peep, 
What things might there be seen. 

Perhaps I 'd see bold Robin Hood, 
With arrows, bow, and brand ; 
He 'd fix his outlawed e)'es on me 
.And shake a threatening hand. 

Then, in some terror, I decide 
That it can not be he ; 

But that some nymph from Fairyland 
Is waiting there for me. 

.■\nd then I think that — oh ! perhaps — 
The world has quite turned over. 
And China and Japan have come 
This side the sky's blue cover. 

At that, I can not stand it more. 
But over have to look. 
And see — the dear old e very-day 
Careen meadow, and the brook ! 


( A 'onsensf V \'>se. ) 

Once there lived a little gnome, 

Who had made his little home 

Right down in the middle of the earth, earth, earth. 

He was full of fun and frolic. 

But his wife was melancholic, 

And he never could divert her into mirth, mirth, mirth. 

He had tried her with a monkey, 

And a parrot and a donkey, 

And a pig that squealed whene'er he pulled its tail, tail, tail. 

But though he laughed himself 

Into fits, the jolly elf. 

Still his wifey's melancholy did not fail, fail, fail. 

" I will hie me," said the gnome, 
" From my worthy earthy home, 

I will go among the dwellings of the men, men, men. 

Soiiu't/ii/ii^ funny there must be, that will make her sa)- ' He ! he ! 

I will find it, and will bring it her again, 'gain, 'gain." 




So he traveled here 

and there. 
And he saw the Bhnk- 

ing Bear, 
And the Pattypol 

whose eyes are 

in his tail, tail, 


He saw the Chingo Chee, 

And a lovely sight was he, 

With a ringlet, and a ribbon 

on his nose, nose, nose. 


And the C)ctopus a-waltzing 
with the whale, whale, 

And the Cantilunar Dog, 
Who was throwing cotton 

flannel at his foes, 

foes, foes. 



All these the little gnome 

Transported to his home, 

And set them down before his weeping wife, wife, wife. 

But she only cried and cried, 

And she sobbywobbed and sighed, 

Till she really was in danger of her hfe, life, life. 

Then the gnome was in despair. 
And he tore his purple hair. 

And he sat him down in sorrow on a stone, stone, stone. 
" I, too," he said, " will cry. 
Till I tumble down and die, 
For I 've had enough of laughing all alone, 'lone, 'lone." 

His tears they flowed away 

Like a rivulet at play. 

With a bubble, gubble, rubble, o'er the ground, ground, ground. 

But when this his wifey saw, 

She loudly cried, " Haw ! haw ! 

Here, at last, is something funny you have found, found, found." 

She laughed, " Ho ! ho ! he ! he ! " 

And she chuckled loud with glee. 

And she wiped away her little husband's tears, tears, tears. 

And since then, through wind and weather. 

They have said " He ! he ! " together. 

For several hundred thousand merry years, years, years. 


By Mary V. Worstell. 

A RICH man once said to me, " I have heard books ? I fancy that he did. But the busy 

people say that if they had enough money they man who purchased that wonderful bootjack 

could easily select Christmas gifts. Now, for doubtless had given no thought to the matter 

the last two hours, I have been trying to find of his Christmas gifts until nearly the 25th of 

something to suit my son-in-law. Finally, in de- December, that consummate flower of the 

spair, I have bought him a fifty-dollar bootjack whole year, and then he must needs buy one 

that you could n't hire me to keep in the house." of the first things he saw, provided only that it 

A fifty-dollar bootjack ! What a confused did not cost too much or too little, 
jumble my mind was for the next few minutes. With the bootjack incident still in my mind. 

Bootjacks, indeed ! I was thinking of a book- I shall suggest various gifts, just by way of be- 

store I had visited that morning — of the man}^ nevolently preventing my fellow-creatures from 

beautiful books, artistically printed and richly receiving absurd or useless presents. Those \\ho 

bound, which those fifty dollars would have are wealthy can usually find lovely and artistic 

purchased. Did not the son-in-law care for gifts at Tiftany's or stores of similar rank. iMy 
Vol. XVIL— 12. 




suggestions are for those lucky individuals with 
■whom money is not so plentiful as to make the 
■wish for a thing and its possession synonymous. 

The most puzzling task at Christmas is to 
select presents for fathers and brothers. Two 
years ago, a certain young woman (this by way 
of reminiscence) failed to find anything she 
thought suitable for her brother. But after much 
perplexity a coffee cup and saucer, daintil)- 
decorated, was selected, and it was gratefully 
used at about three hundred and si.xty breakfasts 
during the following year. The next ) ear a cut- 
glass salt-cellar and pepper-box were given. Be- 
sides these and similar articles, one might try 
canvas or linen slipper-cases, made to hang 
against the wall, inkstands and other articles 
for desks, silver match-boxes, razors (for which 
the traditional penny should be exacted), shaving- 
glasses, cases of shaving-paper, or, that always 
welcome friend, a silk muffler. A case for 
carrying collars and cuffs when traveling, is a 
useful present for many. The outside may be 
of any material available, and the lining should 
be of silk ; but a stiff interlining of buckram 
should be inserted. In short, make it like a 
music-roll, but not so wide, and fasten it with a 
fancy leather strap and buckle. Decorate the 
outside with some pretty device, — the initials 
or monogram of the prospective owner. 

I shall make no further suggestions of articles 
especially suitable for the sterner sex, but among 
the presents which will do equally well for either 
father or mother, brother or sister, maj' be 
mentioned umbrellas; umbrella-cases; chairs of 
more or less elaborate workmanship, from the 
pretty wicker or rattan chair to those which are 
profusely carved or richly upholstered ; opera- 
glasses, gloves, handkerchiefs and handkerchief- 
cases, gold pencils, fountain pens, card-cases, 
napkin-rings, and books. 

A little rule of mine in buying books may not 
come amiss. It is this : AVhen a person's means 
will permit only a small library, never buy any 
book that will not bear reading more than once. 
Still, most of what is called " current literature" 
may be bought for a low price, the chances 
being that its flimsy binding will outwear its 

This is what Charles Lamb says about the 
binding of books : " To be strong-backed and 

neat-bound is the desideratum of a volume. 
Magnificence comes after. This, when it can be 
afibrded, is not to be lavished upon all kinds of 
books indiscriminately. I would not dress a set of 
magazines, for instance, in full suit. The dishabille 
or half-binding (with Russia backs ever) is our 
costume. A Shakspere or a Milton (unless the 
first editions), it were mere foppery to trick out 
in gay apparel. The possession of them confers 
no distinction. The exterior of them (the things 
themselves being so common), strange to say, 
raises no sweet emotions, no tickling sense of 
property in the owner. Thomson's ' Seasons,' 
again, looks best (I maintain it) a little torn and 

In regard to reading good books, Ruskin says : 

" Do you know, if you read this, you cannot 
read that — that what you lose to-day you can- 
not gain to-morrow ? Will you go and gossip 
with your housemaid, or your stable-boy, when 
you may talk with queens and kings ; or flatter 
yourself that it is with any worthy consciousness 
of your own claims to respect that you jostle 
with the common crowd for entree here, and 
audience there, when all the while tliis eternal 
court is open to you, with its society wide as 
the world, multitudinous as its days, the chosen, 
and the mighty, of every place and time ? 
Into that you may enter always; in that you 
may take fellowship and rank according to 
your wish ; from that, once entered into it, you 
can never be outcast but by your own fault ; by 
your aristocracy of companionship there, your 
own inherent aristocracy will be assuredly 
tested, and the motives \vith which you strive 
to take high place in the society of the living, 
measured, as to all the truth and sincerity that 
are in them, by the place you desire to take in 
this company of the dead. 

" ' The place you desire,' and the place you 
Jit yourself for, I must also say; because, ob- 
serve, this court of the past differs from all Uving 
aristocracy in this: — it is open to labor and 
to merit, but to notliing else. No wealth will 
bribe, no name overawe, no artifice deceive, the 
guardian of those Elysian gates. In the deep 
sense, no vile or vulgar person ever enters 

A small bookcase need not be expensive to 
be pretty, and a small revolving bookcase, made 




especially for holding books of reference, is a 
delight to a reader. 

Many of the large publishing houses keep on 
sale pictures of authors. Twenty-five cents will 
buy the portrait of almost any well-known au- 
thor. These are usually wood-engravings and 
excellent of their kind, well printed on good 
paper, in size about ten by twelve inches. For 
the same picture on India paper (which, of 
course, is more durable and admits of a finer 
impression) one dollar may be asked, and the 
extra money will be well spent. A neatly firamed 
portrait of the favorite author of a friend will 
make a charming gift at but small cost. 

Other pictures — photographs of famous pic- 
tures, for instance — may be bought at a low 
figure and framed. But pictures are like books : 
there is an infinite variety to choose from, and 
the price for either can be made high enough to 
suit the most lavish giver. 

Many make it a practice to subscribe to some 
favorite magazine or paper, as a Christmas gift ; 
and those who wish to confer an ever new 
pleasure may well bear this in mind. With so 
many capital publications, devoted to all imag- 
inable tastes and pursuits, a choice will not be 
difficult. Children, especially, enjoy receiving 
their own papers and magazines, and a present 
of this kind can, by a payment far from large, 
be guaranteed to last one year — a surety which 
can never be furnished with any toy, no matter 
how expensive or durable. 

Very young girls have a weakness for ribbons, 
sashes, perfumery, bangles, and fancy pins, and 
one can do worse than to moderately indulge 
these innocent vanities. 

Family servants should share the Christmas 
joy ; and appropriate gifts, such as print or neat 
woolen dresses, aprons, or a pocketbook with 
perhaps a coin or bill in it, will never come amiss. 

The mothers — the housekeepers — are the 
easiest to cater for at this season of puzzled 
shoppers. There are hundreds of dainty arti- 
cles which the true home-maker will welcome. 
Anything to beautify the home can hardly fail 

to please; — silver, china, articles of cut-glass, or 
choice napery for the table, a Japanese umbrella- 
stand, a work-basket prettily fitted up and with 
perhaps a silver or gold thimble in its own little 
pocket, a linen scarf for the sideboard embroid- 
ered or finished with " drawn work," a shop- 
ping-bag, or embroidered scarfs of the pretty 
China silks now so much used in decoration. 
Other gifts might be vinaigrettes, silver glove- 
buttoners, crocheted slippers, dainty aprons, 
ivory brushes and combs, stationery, pocket- 
books, card-cases or address-books. In pre- 
senting any of the latter gifts it will show an 
added thoughtfulness on the part of the giver 
to have the name, or at least the initials, of the 
recipient printed in gilt letters on the article, if 
it be of leather. The added cost for this work 
is very trifling. In the same way the value of a 
box of stationery is much enhanced if the giver 
has had the address of the recipient stamped 
upon the upper right-hand comer of the paper. 
A little rime and thoughtful work may produce 
very delightful results. A lady of my acquaint- 
ance was greatly pleased w-ith a certain beautiful 
story which appeared in a well-known weekly 
paper. It was not possible to obtain the story in 
any other form, so her niece bought two copies 
of the paper containing it, as it was printed on 
both sides of the page. After cutting the story 
out neatly in columns and pasting these into one 
long strip, the whole piece was measured and 
then carefully pasted in even double columns 
upon sheets of heavy paper of a size which left 
a broad margin. Then the margins were deco- 
rated with delicate sprays of flowers painted in 
sepia, and the name of the story in fancy letters 
appeared on the thicker sheet of paper which 
served as a cover. Round holes were made with 
an instrument which is manufactured for that 
purpose, and all the sheets, eleven in number, 
were tied together with a ribbon. On the last 
page a copy of a famous painting of the Ma- 
donna, prominently mentioned in the story, was 
mounted. The result was a really lovely httle 
gift-book, sure to please her who received it. 


Our readers will be interested in comparing the two descriptions of rabbit-hunting published in this 

number: " Coursing with Greyhounds in Southern California" and a " Pueblo 

Rabbit-hunt." Between the civilized "coursing" and the savage 

" drive " the contrast is certainly striking. 


Dear St. Nicholas : 

Washington, D. C. 

I HAVE the honor, this morning, to be, 

One of a committee, that numbers but three, 

To ask you a question concerning the fate 

Of one who wrote for your pages of late. 

'T is " Jack-in-the- Pulpit," whose loss we bewail. 

The parson who told us full many a tale. 

Instructive and funny his sermons to all. 

Now tell your " Dear Reader," has Jack had a fall ? he misused the funds that others have earned? 

Has he taught us a lesson that he has n't learned ? 

Has he jilted the " School-raa'ani," that lamb of his fold. 

Or doctrines advanced that some thought too bold ? 

If you know where he is, you had best make it known, 

Or suspicion will rest on old St. Nick alone. 

When last Jack was seen with your authors renowned, 

He seemed hale and hearty — in efery way sound. 

Now do solve the mystery that hangs over Jack, 

And if it is possible please have him back. 

Vive le St. Nicholas, in whom I delight. 

Your .-irdent admirer, Ethel P. Wright. 

This cheery correspondent, and all Jack's other 
friends, will see that he is again in his pulpit this 
month. Like other preachers, he must have a 
vacation now and then. 

And, by the way, Jack-in-the-Pulpit requests 
us to convey his thanks to Mollie U. F., Kag- 
roin, J. H. Dam/l, May IVaring, Dannie C, 
Mildred D. G. , and Pan/ Gage, for the good let- 
ters they sent him in reply to Aimee Lequeu.x D.'s 
question given in the May St. Nicholas. The 
letters were cordially enjoyed, but were received 
too late to be acknowledged with the other letters 
on the banana question. 

Perhaps some of the readers of the St. Nicholas may 
be surprised to know that the King, Queen and Prin- 
cesses go about the town just like other people — some- 
times in a carriage, or on horseback, and often walk about 
the streets unattended. But when there is any special 
ceremony, there is a gilt coach, with grooms in blue 
and silver liveries, and magnificent horses. But perhaps 
everyone is not so much interested in royalty as I am, so 
I will talk of something else. There are a great many 
ruins here, the most beautiful being the Acropolis. But 
I must not attempt to describe them. Besides the ruins, 
there are very beautiful houses (really palaces) and mag- 
nificent streets. The pavement on the principal streets 
must be about thirty feet wide on each side, and the road 
still wider. I must say, before I stop writing, that, of all 
the stories I have yet read in the St. Nicholas, " Little 
Lord Fauntleroy " and "Juan and Juanita" are ray 
favorites. I have a little sister who enjoys the pictures 
\ery much. 

Now, good-bye, dear St. Nicholas, from your inter- 
ested reader, Mabel M . 

Athens, Greece. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I do not remember to have 
ever seen a letter from Athens in your " Letter-box," so 
I thought that some of your readers might like to know 
something about it. The people are very dark, and it is 
rare to find any fair ones. I was only nine years old 
when I left .\merica, and now I am fourteen. Greek is 
very difficult, and a person not knowing the language 
might often think the people quarreling, they talk so very 
loud and use so many gestures. Greek girls do not, as 
a rule, go to school, but they have private teachers and 
governesses. Almost all the children speak several lan- 
guages, and you often find a little child five or six years 
old who can speak Greek, English, German, and French. 

Bai.ti.more, Md. 
Dear St. Nicholas : We have taken your magazine 
for nearly a year, and are very fond of it. We visited 
Europe about a year ago, and stayed there for six months. 
We were led to take your magazine by hearing such 
favorable comments passed upon it while we were in 
Athens, Greece. We visited various places of interest, 
among which were Geneva, Paris, London, Liverpool, 
Rome, and numerous other cities. While in Geneva we 
had quite a singular adventure. We were out driving, 
one sultry afternoon, when our carriage was slopped, 
and two fierce-looking men approached us, compelling 
us to give up all our valuables. Of course we were 
obliged to comply with their wishes, but very reluctantly. 
Hoping to see this letter published in your next number, 
Your admiring readers. May and Flora. 

Lily Bay, Me. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I saw in your August number 
an article about " Flower Ladies." I have often played 
it, only rather more elaborately. Perhaps you would 
like to know my way. 

I used to take a bud or seed-vessel, leaving about two 
inches of stalk. A daisy bud or a very green poppy- 
seed is the best, using the bud or seed-vessel as a head, 
and slipping the stalk through the petal of a morning- 
glory flower. W^e did not always use morning-glory 
flowers, but sometimes nasturtium blossoms with enough 
of the little tube cut off to allow the stalk to pass through, 
so making a girl doll with a full skirt. 



A still gayer dress was one I made by taking the petals 
of a poppy and fastening them aiound the waist of the 
doll with grass or thread, and then putting on the leaves 
of a different-colored popjiy arranged as a cape. 

Hats were made by taking the blossom of a sweet-pea 
and opening the lower petals wide enough to insert the 
head, and running a pin or stiff piece of grass through 
from the calyx, which is left on, into the head. A sim- 
pler way of making hats is to take a blossom of the butter- 
and-eggs (Antirrhinum) and open the mouth wide enough 
to inclose the head. We used to call them " riding-hats." 
Faces can be made by pressing the point of a pin into 
the seed. I have never seen this done except with a 

Hoping that my St. Nicholas girl friends who are 
interested in the " Flower Ladies " will improve and 
enlarge on my pattern-book, I remain, sincerely yours, 

Eleanor M. F . 

Canton, O. 

Dear St. Nicholas: Although I have taken you for 
nearly five years, I have never written to you before, and 
I hope this letter will have the honor of being printed in 
the " Letter-box," for the re.ason that it is from a " Johns- 
town flood sufferer," if for no other. 

Our family was (with the e.xception of myself, I being 
two miles from town visiting) in the thickest part of the 
flood. They were on the roof of the house when it floated 
from its foundation and directly opposite the school- 
house, which was a block away from us before the flood. 

They then climbed over houses, debris, etc., and got 
in the school-house. This was about five o'clock in the 
evening of that disastrous day. They did not get out until 
six o'clock the next evening. During all that time they 
did not have a bite to eat. I had my St. Nicholas all 
bound, but the books went with our house in the flood. I 
have not seen but one copy of St. Nicholas since May 
31, 1889, and do not expect to see one of my own for a 
great while. 

Your interested «o«-reader, Alice L. S . 

P. S. — Not one of my relatives was lost in the flood, 
but many friends were. We are going back to Johns- 
town in the fall. 

Greenwood Lake, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I enjoy having my Papa read 
to my sisters and my brothers and myself the stories in 
St. Nicholas. 

I will tell you a funny story. At our house, whenever 
we are naughty, we have another name. 

We don't belong to our family at all, but to the Hop- 
scotch family. My big sister is Peggerty, the next one 
Betsy, or Elizabeth Jane, and my big brother is Jede- 
diah, and my little brothers Obediah and .4bimeleck, and 
my sister, that 's only a little older than L whose letter 
you printed in your September St., is Malinda, 
and Papa and Mamma, if they were ever naughty, would 
be .-Khasuerius and Semarimus, and my name is ^lelvina. 

If we are naughty, my Papa says," Peggerty, Elizabeth 
Jane, Jedediah, Malind.a, Melvina, Obediah, and .^bime- 
leck, go right to your rooms and stay there until I send 
for you ! " 

I tell you we do not, any of us, like to be called a 
member of the Hopscotch f.rniily ! 

Nora McD , seven years old. 

The last time I wrote to you, I was in Virginia. I in- 
tended to write and tell you about New Orleans, when 
I lived there. The trip down South was a very pleasant 
one to us. We went down in the latter part of October, 
just when the cotton is being picked. It is very interest- 
ing to see the negroes picking ; they hold a large basket 
on their heads, with one hand, and with the other they 
pick the cotton. When one hand is quite full they reach 
up and put the contents in the basket. The prettiest 
sight that I saw in my three-days' journey south, was 
the Florida moss which hangs from the trees ; this moss 
is of a dull, dusty gray ; when picked it will sometimes 
turn black. 

I have stood on the battle-ground at New Orleans, 
and have also been on top of Jackson Monument. This 
monument is built of white stone, and is not complete; 
some of the stones on top are loose and liable to fall 
at any moment. When in the South I used to amuse 
myself by watching the little lizards running up and 
down the trees. They are very peculiar ; when running 
up the bark of a tree, they turn dark, but as soon as 
they touch the green leaves they are green. 

The prettiest cemetery that I ever saw is the Chal- 
mette National Cemetery; in June (the month of roses) 
it is a bower of flowers. Flowers of every kind and 
description grow in profusion. Among the flowers are 
banana-palms and orange trees ; the latter, when in 
bloom, scent the whole cemetery. 

Just before you get to the cemetery is an old, old 
powder-house, that was built before the war ; it is so 
old that it is nearly tumbling over. 

Attached to Jackson barracks is a large magnolia 
grove, where the magnolias blossom and fade. They 
perfume the whole barracks. 

I have taken you for three years and could not do 
without you. Every month, when it draws near the 
time for your arrival, the mail is carefully watched. 

I was born in the West, but I love the South. This 
is the first time I have been North. I remain, your 
devoted reader and admirer, M. T. S. 

New York City. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I want to tell you about a 
" Martha Washington Fancy Dress Party " which I 
attended on the Centennial Day. 

It was given by a friend of mine, and I wore a gown 
my great-grandmother wore on the day of Washington's 
Inauguration. It was made of a dark red, of an ordinary 
material, and a part of it was lined with bed-ticking. 
The boys took dift'erent characters in American history, 
as the girls did, and looked very old-fashioned in their 
W'hile wigs, smallclothes, shoe-buckles, and military coats. 

We danced the minuet and other old dances, and the 
ice-cream was served up in two different forms, — one 
the head of Martha, and the other of George Washington. 

I enjoy your magazine so very much, and can hardly 
wait for it to come every month. Your loving friend 
and admirer, Aida St. Clair D . 

Fort Wadsworth, Staten Island, N. Y. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I promised to write to you 
some time ago, but have never done so. I am an army 
girl, and am constantly moving about. I love to travel. 

We acknowledge, with thanks, the receipt of pleasant 
letters from the young friends whose names follow : 
Lilian M., E. P., Eleanor M., Alice F. Mitchell, Joseph- 
ine Sherwood, S. Howard .Armstrong, M. C. S., Hen- 
riette de R., Juha Babcock, Carrie and Fannie Bennet, 
Hazel M. Muncey, Kitlie K. Nyce, Reba I. and Fannie, 
James H., Maria D. Malone, Millie K. and Rose L., 
E. Janney, Elizabeth D., Kate Guthrie, Lisa D. Blood- 
good, Margaret S., Cora M. S., Ortie C. Dake, Martha 
Frederick, Ethel P. Wright, Kate Krutz, Elsie R.,Cliarle5 
T. IL," Lizzie," Martha T. Mann, Sara M. Scribner, 
Lilian, Mabel, Maude, and Cecile, Violet C, Ruth Owen 


To St., the Agassiz Association (which was 
begun in this magazine) owes a new debt of gratitude. 
Within two months after our annual report appeared in 
St. Nicholas last November, responsive letters were 
received from more than three hundred persons, and 
more than one hundred new branch societies, or Chap- 
ters, were organized. I wish the number might be 
doubled now ! 

Among the most interesting of our new Chapters are 
two which have taken root — where do you think? — in 
Russia ! One of them is at Shargovod, in Podolsk, the 
other at Savinstzy, in Poltava, and if you will take the 
trouble to glance at your atlas you will see that these are 
not border towns, but far interior. 

Two societies have been established in England 
(Burton and Wolverhampton), and one in Nova Scotia. 

The readers of St. Nichol.-vs are probably aware that 
we have divided all the branches of the Association into 
ten groups, called "centuries," for convenience in report- 
ing. Reports are expected from the Chapters of the first 
century in January of each year; from the second century 
in February, and so on, omitting the months of August 
and September. Perhaps I can give no better impres- 
sion of the progress of our work than by taking a short 
glance at the letters which came in for the month July. 
They are certainly very encouraging and gratifying. 

Iowa Chapters are always "up to the mark." Here is Clarks- 
vilie, 612, started only last March, that has already more than 
doubled its membership, has meetings every Saturday, holds written 
examinations once a month in botany, and adds to the usual pro- 
gramme of its meetings, music, readings, and recitations. Miss 
Bertha Penrose is the president, and Miss Grace Cameron the 

We turn the telescope to Louisiana. Within half a year the Henry 
H. Straight Memorial Cliaptcr, New Orleans, C, No. 614, has in- 
creased its membership from eight to twenty-four. Three hundred 
per cent, is very cood! Three of these members are adult, and they 
direct the work of the children, each one being encouraged to follow 
his special inclination. Among other things talked over and studied 
have been the crayfish, dragon-fly, various moths and butterflies, 
and sea-fish. Common trees have also been discussed, and speci- 
mens of the wood, blossom, flower, and fruit mounted on cardboard. 
One meeting was given up entirely to the chicken. Its senses, 
"clothes." bones (in a mounted skeleton), history and ori^n, breeds 
and care, eggs and incubators, were some of the topics, vaned by two 
humorous recitations. After all this the societj- actually partook of a 
chicken-pie (which is certainly a practical illustration of "applied 
science "' !) and the meeting adjourned after each person present had 
while blindfolded drawn a picture of a chicken. Each one paid five 
cents for the privilege of drawing, and the one who made the best 
picture received the whole collection of drawings as a "chicken 
album." So they had much fun and made some money. Miss 
Eliza \. Cheyney, the earnest secretary, adds, " We are verj' glad in- 
deed to belong to the Agassiz Association. Any one who doubts 
the value of nature studies for children should watch, as I have for six 
months, its awakening and quickening power." 

Before passing to the next Chapter, we must add parenthetically 
that Miss Cheyney has just organized a strong Chapter of more than 
twenty members in Hampton Institute, General Armstrong's In- 
dian School. 

It is surprising how Chapters in the largest cities thrive equally 
with those which are supposed to be in nature's more favored haunt, 
the country. Chapter 630, A'ctv York City, Q, retains its full mem- 
bership, and has been steadily adding to its collections. 

And now we must take a very long step. — to Redlattds, Cali- 
fornia. Prince Krapotkine, the distinguished Russian, calls frequent 
attention to the Agassiz Association, in his speeches on "What 
Geography Ought to Be " ; and shows that, by such a system of cor- 
respondence and exchange as we have, we get more true knowledge 
of distant lands than is possible in any other way. The truth of this 
remark is illustrated by our regular reports every month. 

In Redlands, Cal., then, C//(z/ii*r63Q began its existence at the sug- 
gestion and under the guidance of Professor J. G. Scott, so long the 
distinguished head of the Westfield, Mass., Normal School. Pro- 
fessor Scott has recently died, but, wherever he has been, there will 
remain inspiring memories of his earnest life. Says the secretary of 
Chapter 639, " Professor Scott spent most of the winter with us, and 

no one could be with him without becoming interested in natural his- 
tory. We were constantly inspired." She adds, *' We were also fort- 
unate in having another Massachusetts teacher with us last winter, 
Professor T. E. N. Eaton, of Worcester. He conducted a boumy 
class attended by some fifty members." The secretarj- of this Chap- 
ter, at the end of her very interesting report, requests that it be not 
published. We did not notice the request until the foregoing extract 
was written, and while we do not publish the report, we are unwill- 
ing to suppress the merited tributes to Professors Scott and Eaton. 

One of our most active Chapters is 652, East Orange, N. J.. C, 
under the efficient management of Mary D. Hussey, M. D. Just 
entering on its third year with five new members, it reports ihe 
interest greater than ever. It is so large that its work is done in 
secrions, of which there are four. The geological section has finished 
the first grade of Professor Guttenberg's Agassiz Association coime 
and has begun a study of local minerals. 1 he botanical section has 
been occupied with excursions and work upon the local flora, and 
on Arbor Day interested the children of a public school in ttee- 
planting. Fifty small trees, which had been raised from seedlings, 
were presented to the children by the Chapter, and the children 
planted them at their own homes with their own hands. The ento- 
mological section reported on wasps, honey-bees, bumble-bees, and 
silk-worms, presenting specimens of each. It was all original work. 
During the remainder of the season the ornithological section look 
charge of the meetings, and the following birds were studied from 
specimens lent from a private collection: English sparrows, chip- 
ping, song, and tree sparrows, snow-birds, hawks, owls, blackbirds, 
orii'les, robins, wrens, and fly-catchers. Members of this Chapter 
attended each meeting of the Agassiz Hill and Dale Club, and the 
New Jersey State Assembly of the Agassiz Association. Agassiz's 
birthday. May 28, was celebrated in a grove by reading sketches 
of his life and scientific work, and Lowell's poem, followed by 
refreshments and an exhibition of specimens. A most encouraging 
record of a year's work. 

Mr. H. B. Hastings reports that Ch3.pter C6^. of Chelsea, J^Iass.f 
has a microscope fund of thirty-six dollars deposited in bank. 

We must give an extract from the excellent report of Chapter 694, 
of PlainfieQ, N. /., C. The three secretaries, Mary E. Tracy, 
Margaret C Tracy, and Lilian Erskine, write, in part, as follow s : 

" Our Chapter has eleven active and five honorary members. This 
year botanical and geological sections have been formed in addition 
to the one in entomology. We have held thirty-nine meetings besides 
making ten excursions into the country, have sent a delegate to both 
sessions of the New Jersey Assembly, and at least one member has 
attended three meetings of the Hill and Dale Club. 

" The botanical section of our chapter was organized in the fall and 
consists of eight active members. We have held nine regular meet- 
ings. During the first part of the year we studied ferns. In the 
winter months we took up the lives of Linnarus. the Jussieu family, 
and other well-known botanists of that time. Our work this spring 
has been mostly in connection with the study of botany in school. 
We have analyzed one hundred and five plants, fifty plants having 
been mounted by each member." 

We bring this hasty review of the " Seventh Century " to a close 
by quoting part of an encouraging report from Mt. Pleasant, Iowa : 
" The number of meetings held during the year is forty-five. We 
have made quite a number of excursions and some very interesting 
discoveries. One of our members, a gendeman from Colorado at- 
tending the Universit>', brought us some beautiful specimens of gold 
and silver ore." 

A noticeable feature of the year's work has been the 
rapid extension of the Association among the higher 
institutions of learning. We have Chapters in connec- 
tion with Johns Hopkins University, Columbia College, 
the College of the City of New York, Rutgers, Wellesley, 
Wittenburg, Akron, Olivet, and others, to say nothing of 
numerous Chapters in normal schools. 

At the same time, there are just as many Chapers of the 
little ones as ever, and many " family Chapters," where 
old and young study and work together. Once more, it 
gives me great pleasure to invite all, of whatever age, to 
unite with us, either by organizing local Chapters, or as 
individual members. To any one who will send liis 
address will be sent a circular, containing concise direc- 
tions for joining the Association — there is no charge for 
the enrollment of Chapters — and with the circular will 
be sent a wood -en graving of Professor Agassiz. 

Address., President Agassiz Association, 

Pittsfield, Mass. 



Illustrated Puzzle. Sir Christopher Wren. i. Spike. 

2. .\corn. 3. Chair. 4. Sieve. 5. Otter. 6. Ships. 
7. Mower. 8. Rower. 9. Negro. 

.\cROSTic Riddle, i. Lark. 2. Army. 3. Riches. 
4. Kite. 

Numerical Enigma. 

The sere leaf, flitting on the blast ; 

The hips and haws in every hedge, 
Bespe.ik October 's come ! At bast 
We stand on Winter's crumbling edge. 
A. Hollow Square. From i to 2, spatter; 3 to 4, 
plea ; 5 to 6, alcoran ; 7 to S, tong ; 9 to 10, ternate ; 
II to 12, eats ; 13 to 14, rangest. 
Co.NCEALED HALF SQUARE. I. Diamond. 2. Imbibe. 

3. Abate. 4. Mite. 5. Obe. 6. Ne. 7. D. 
Connected Word-squares. Upper square :.i. Plan. 



Hare. 3. Aril. 


Lower square : i. Than. 
From I to 3, pintail. 

Diamond, i. P. 2. Lea. 3. Worms. 4. Lovable. 

5. Peragrate. 6. Ambreic. 7. Slain. 8. Etc. 9. E. 
Prlmal Acrostic. Harvest Home. Cross-words : 

1. Hydra. 2. Arion. 3. Remus. 4. Vesta. 5. Epeus. 

6. Siren. 7. Titan. 8. Hylas. 9. Orion. 10. Medea. 
II. Erato. 

Buried Cities. Initials, Cleveland, i. Canion. 

2. Lille. 3. Exeter. 4. Venice. 5. Ems. 6. Lima. 

7. Amiens. 8. Nice. 9. Damascus. 

Pi. ALICE CARY IN "AlUumu." 

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips 

The days, as through the sunset gate they crowd, 
And Summer from her golden collar slips 

And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aluud, 
Save when by fits the warmer air deceives. 

And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower, 
She lies on pillows of the faded leaves. 

And tries the old tunes over for an hour. 

To OUR Puzzlers : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th 
of each month, and should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East 
Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the August Number were received, before August 15th, from Louise 
Ingham .\dams — Josephine Sherwood — Paul Reese — Maxieand Jackspar — Maude E. Palmer — Clara B. Orwig — 
Pearl F. Stevens — J. B. Swann — Ida C. Thallon — Blanche and Fred — Mamma and Jamie- — "The \Vise 
Five" — Mary L. Gerrish — Odie Oliphant. 

Answers to Puzzles in the August Number were received, before .August 15th, from Marion Hughes, i — 
"The Family," i — Gertrude and Cora McCabe, i — Pearl B., i — Ida A., i — Monica, 2 — Donald C. Barnes, i — 
Mabel, Alice, and Savage, I — Emmons L. Peck, I — Bebbie and Matilda, 2 — A. E. H. Meyer, 2 — L. R. 
M., I — Pauline M. H., Elsie E., and Catherine E. H., I — "May and '79," 9 — Annie Louise Clay, i — Clara 
and Emma, i — Wm. N. Seaver, 5 — May and Lil, I — Lester and Gertrude, i — " Bungalowites," 2 — Mary E. 
Colston, 3 — F. P. Whitmore, I — L. L. W. and Two Cousins, I — M. H. Perrin, I — Lisa D. Bloodgood, 2 — 
H. M. C, 4 — Efiie K. Talboys, 6— A. P. C, S. W., E. M. M. and A. W. Ashhurst, 5 — Bella Myers, I — G. 
H. Purdy, 2 — Margaret Alice, i — Ida and Mamma, 2 — May Martin, i — Margy P. and Emilie D., 4 — "Karl 
the Great," 9 — John W. Frothingham, Jr. , 2 — " Kendrick Family," I — Percy V. Ranee, I — Skipper, 2 — Helen 
D., 9 — "Bears," 2 — "Jo and I," 10 — Nellie L. Howes, 8 — joslyn Z. and Julian C. Smith, 6 — "A Family 
Affair," 9— Kate Guthrie, 5 — Nora Maynard, 4 — Fanny H., 8 — Adrienne Offley Forrester, 5 — J. M. Wright, 
1 — Pussy and Kitty, 2 — " Frizzlevvig," 4 — E. F. M., 3 — Charles Beaufort, i — B. F. R., 7 — Dora, i. 


Across : i. The government of the Turkish empire. 
2. Injuries. 3. Pastimes. 4. Fairies. 5. Pur|)ort. 

Downward: i. In rope. 2. An exclamation. 3. A 
fragment. 4. A snare. 5. An ant. 6. Withered. 7. In- 
iquity. 8. In like manner. 9. In rope. 


Sit eth emit 
Hewn eht miche 
Fo eht senasos horlac bnda si ginring tou. 

Kysom stribgnesh slifl eht ari, 

Rof eht glith swind weeryhever 
Scneers Iful fo wolfrey bresem wings baton. 

Three si stenswese hatt sopperess, 

.Sa a retden riptang seslebs ; 

Threes a fontsced wogi fo yabteu, 

Sa hewn Leov si rethawing Duyt; 

Theer rea delisome taht mese 
Gawvine stap dan trufeu toni neo rafi ramed. 


All of the words described contain the same number 
of letters. When these have been rightly guessed and 

placed one below the other, in the order here given, the 
primals will spell degrades ; the row next to them will 
spell to superintend; the finals will spell the side oppo- 
site to the weather side ; and tire row next to them will 
spell charges. 

Cross-words: i. Pertaining to the back. 2. Tomani- 
fest. 3. To threaten. 4. A name anciently given to the 
underworld. 5. A city in Italy, near Perugia. 6. Wanted. 
7. Having the surface set with bristles. F. s. F. 


I. Gives medicine to. 2. The weight of twelve grains. 
3. Substantial. 4. A feminine name. 5. A covered 
vehicle for carrying a single person. 


Myyfrj-/ is the most of the whole ; 

Indeed, than the u<holf it 's no less. 
My second^ no matter how large, 

Can never be all, vou 'II confess. 
By adding a few to the whole 

\ compound is made that is healthy; 
Indeed, your food should be this. 

Whether you 're poor or you 're wealthy. 





I AM composed of forty-eigl.t letters, and form two 

teen'^^i^es.^ My 1.-27-40-.7-4 is a story. My ,5-^1- 
4S ,9 is an excuse. My -23-3S-29-9-20-44 >. ^^'^ 
national flower of a certain country M/ •4-25-5-46 
-o is a kind of grain extensively cultivated. M> 35 4' 
fs a preposition.^My 2-. 5-26-33-24-16 is a young cow 
My 6-43-8-37 are small, globular masses of lead. My 
3-47-22-31-34-10-28-12-39 IS enslaves. F. A. %v. 



to the lower right-hand corner, will spell the name of the 
English poet from whose great work the following quo- 
tations are taken : r., ,).»«»»» rm-th 
I. " Then comes the father of the * * » lo'th. 

Wrapt in black glooms." 
2 „»»»«*»« in his palace of cerulean ice,^^ 
Here Winter holds his unrejoicing^court^." 
1 " Along the woods, along the • » * • tens, 

Sichs the sad genius of the coming storm. 
^ The lively »'•*•** drinks thy purest rays, 
Collected light, compact." 
' He saw her charming, but he saw not half 
The charms her downcast •• ^ ^ ^ ^-^^r^]'^- 
' How dead the vegetable hes • 

:. And see where surly Winter passes off, ^ ,, 

Far to the north, and calls his* ^'asts. 






FacH of the six small pictures m.ay be described by a 
word of seven letters. When these words are rightly 
euessed and placed one below the other, in the order 
here given, the third perpendicular row will spell the 
surname of an American poet who was born in Novem- 
ber, 1797. 


From night until morning, from morning till night, 

Mv dress v.iries not, 't is the purest of white ; 

But how shall I add what must injure my song,— 

That I 'm plump as a dumpling, not round but oblong. 

Moreover, my station I take on the 

Of a creature large, strong, and a true quadruped; 

But so gentle and quiet that children may dare 

To mount on his back and sit fearlessly there. 

I said that my form was not sylph-hke nor slender, 

\o matter for that, since my feeUngs are lender; 

But a caution I have for the young and the gay, 

Shun my company ever, by break of the day. 

Or the roses of health that now bloom on your face 

Will ere long to the hue of the lily give place. 

\nd now if there 's one who my name has not guessed, 

I 'U venture 't is that one who loves me the best. 


Whfx the words represented by stars in the following 
sentences have been rightly guessed and placed one below 
the other, the diagonals, from the upper left-hand corner 

EXAMPLE : Separate a rural worker, and make a vege- 
nble and an insect. Answer, peas-ant. 

I Separate a kind of pie or tart, and make to revolve 
and above. 2. Separate a mercenary, and make wages and 
a kind of fish. 3^ Separate a preservative against injury, 
and m-d'e a preposition meaning " against," and to love 
Tsepiite a nocturnal bird, and make darkness and a 
tirtr'e^embling a falcon. 5- Separate a piece of timber 
in a ship, and make navigates and onward. 6. Separate 
an assistant to a churchwarden, and make margins and a 
human being. 7- Separate an unexpected piece of good 
fortune, and make idols and conclusion. ^- S^^P^^'" 
write between, and make to bury and a w.iter 9-^ep 
arate pertaining to the evemng, and make the evening 
:tar a^d part o^f a fork.. .0. Separate to t-ea^en a,^ 
make a mischievous sprite and the close. II. Separate 
Remarkable, and make a word that expresses denial and 
proficient. 12. Separate to please, and make happy and 

'^ When the above words are rightly guessed and placed 
one below the other, the initials of the first row of words 
™11 speU a day of rejoicing, and the initials of the second 
row, Tplace many people visit in ^j;vember.^^^_^^^^^_ 


MY primals form a surname of Juno at Rome, and my 

'"cKo'^sToKOsfo^equal length): i. .A large artery. in 
the neck. 2. An Italian poet. 3. A web-footed marine 
lird 4 Reported. 5- Capacity. 6. .\ Imtel over a 
door 7. To fall against. 8. A kind of cloth, originally 
brought from ChinI 9. A musical term meaning rather 


By taking one word from each of tlie follow-ing prov- 
erbs' a quofation from AMc6et/>, suitable to the season, 

mav be found : , , j a- . 

1 Bitter pills may have blessed effects. 

2 \ "ood key is necessary to enter mto Paradise. 

I Some have more trouble in the digestion of meat 
than in getting the meat itself. 

4 Better wait on the cook than the doctor. 

1 Praise the sea but keep on land. . -, „ j , 

6. Temperance, employment, a cheerful spirit, and a 
good appetite are the great preservers of health. 

7 Little and often fills the purse. 

8 Sickness is felt, but health not at all. 
9. Lookers-on see more than PJayers. 

1 Hear both sides before you deeide^on^yo^u^r^verdict. 


(engraved for ST. 




Vol. XVII. 

DECEMBER, 1889. 

No. 2. 


By Anne Thackeray Ritchie. 


There is a picture we used to look at as chil- 
dren in the nursery at home, and which my own 
children look at now, as it hangs upon the wall. 
It is a water-color sketch, delicately penciled and 
tinted, done in India some three-quarters of a 
century ago by Chinnery, a well-known artist of 
those days, who went to Calcutta and depicted 
the people there with charming skill. 

This picture represents a family group, — father, 
mother, infant child, — a subject which has been 
popular with painters ever since they first began 
their craft. Long before Raphael's wondrous 
art was known, this particular composition was 
a favorite with artists and spectators, as I think it 
will ever be, from generation to generation, while 
mothers continue to clasp their little ones in 
their arms. This special group of Thackerays is 
almost the only glimpse we have of my father's 
earliest childhood, but it gives a vivid passing 
impression of his first home, which lasted for so 
short a time. My long, lean, young grandfather 
sits at such ease as people allowed themselves 
in those classic days, propped in a stiff chair, in 
tight white ducks and pumps, and with a kind, 
grave face. He was Mr. Richmond Thackeray, 
of the Bengal Civil Service, the then revenue 


by The Century Co. 

collector of the districts called " the twenty-four 
Perganas." My grandmother, a beautiful young 
woman of some two and twenty summers, stands, 
draped in white, with a certain nymph-like aspect, 
and beside her, perched upon half a dozen big 
piled books, with his arms round his mother's neck, 
is her Httle son, William Makepeace Thackeray, 
a round-eyed boy of three years old, dressed in a 
white muslin frock. He has curly, dark hair, an 
innocent face, and a very sweet look and smile. 
This look was almost the same indeed after a life- 
time; neither long years of work and trouble, nor 
pain, nor chill winters of anxiety ever dimmed 
its clear simplicity, though his spectacles may 
have sometimes come between his eyes and 
those who did not know him very well. 

He used to take his spectacles off when he 
looked at this old water-color. " It is a pretty 
drawing," he used to say ; but if his father, in 
the picture, could have risen from the chair 
he would have been about nine feet high, ac- 
cording to the length of the legs there depicted. 
My own father used to tell us he could just re- 
member our grandfather, a very tall, thin man, 
rising out of a bath. He could also remember 
the crocodiles floating on the Ganges, and that 
was almost all he ever described of India, though 
in his later writings there are many allusions to 

All rights resetted. 




^ja t'^ ' v.* f 


East Indian life. In " The Tremendou.s Ad- 
ventures of Major Gahagan," for instance, there 
is enough meaning and intention in the names 
and Hindustanee to show that he still retained 
something of his early impressions. 

A year after the sketch in question was painted. 

the peaceful home in India was broken up for- 
ever. The poor young collector of the twenty- 
four Perganas died of a fever on board a ship, 
where he had been carried from the shore for 
fresher air ; this was about 1816, when my father 
was five vears old. 




Richmond Thackeray was himself httle over 
thirty when he died. His young widow re- 
mained in India ^\ath her mother, and married 
a second time. Two years after her first hus- 
band's death, her httle son came back to Eng- 
land with a cousin of the same age, both return- 
ing under the care of an Indian ci\-ilian, Mr. 
James iMcXabb, who had promised to befriend 
the chOdren on the journey home, and of whose 
kindness we were often told in our childhood. 

In the Roundabout Paper, on " Letts's Diary," 
my father mentions this verj' coming home. He 
is speaking of this cousin, Sir Richmond Shake- 
spear, who had been his httle playmate and 
friend from the time of their birth. " In one of 
the stories by the present writer," he says, "a 
man is described tottering up the steps of the 
Ghaut, ha\ing just parted with his child whom 
he is dispatching to England from India. I 
wTOte this, remembering in long, long distant 
days such a Ghaut, or river-stair, at Calcutta ; 
and a day when down those steps, to a boat 
which was in waiting, came two children whose 
mothers remained on the shore. One of these 
ladies was never to see her boy more." (So he 
says speaking of his aunt Mrs. Shakespear.) 

My grandmother's was a happier fate, and 
she returned to make a home for her son, and to 
see him grow up and prosper and set his mark 
upon his time. 


Before going any further the writer must 
explain how it has come about that these few 
papers and drawings are now for the first time 
given to the public. 

A little more than a year ago an American 
gentleman came to see us at Southmead, where 
we were then living, with a letter of introduc- 
tion from a friend, and at his request I showed 
him some letters and drawings, and the picture 
of my father which I have been describing, and 
some of my father's MSS., in all of which 
he took the same warm and responsive interest 
which has so often been shown by the American 
as well as the Enghsh readers of " Vanity Fair " 
and " Pendennis." Among the letters were two 
or three very early epistles I had lately found : 
written at the time of my father's first .coming 
home to England, when all our present race of 

elders, statesmen, poets, and philosophers were 
also httle boys — and girls, shall we say? — play- 
ing in their nurseries, spinning their hoops and 
tops, peacefully awaiting the coming whirhgigs 
of life. I had found the letters by chance one 
day, in a packet which had been preserved by 
my grandmother for half a centur\-. It had then 
lain undisturbed for nearly twenty years after her 
death, for so much time had passed since they 
were first written by the httle boy in the quiet 
Hampshire village to his mother in India. 

I showed these childish letters, among other 
things, to my American ^isitor, as I have said, 
and, not long afterward, he wTOte to me con- 
vening the request of the Editor of St. Nicho- 
las, that I would let the magazine ha^e them 
for the benefit of its young readers. I had 
some hesitation at first in compl)ing with the 
request, — for it is difficult to go against a hfe- 
long habit, and I have always felt bound by 
my father's objections. After a time I spoke to 
my old friend Mr. George Smith, to whom my 
father's copyrights belong. He willingly con- 
sented and saw no real hindrance to the publi- 
cation. And, as I looked again at the child's 
writing, I felt that even the most fastidious could 
not find any breach of confidence in printing the 
simple hnes ; and, apart from aU other reasons, 
it would be a pleasure to us and to our own chil- 
dren to see them reproduced. I was sure, too, 
that many American boys and girls and their 
elders would be interested to see how the w riter 
of "Vanity Fair" began his life-long work. 

And so it happened that one summer's day 
this year a little cart drew up at our garden 
gate, a photographer and a camera were landed 
on the doorstep, the camera was set up in a 
comer of the garden, the sun came out from be- 
hind a cloud, and in an hour or two the letters 
were copied, the pictures and the bust were 
reproduced, the picture went back to its nail, 
and the letters to their drawers, and the cart 
rumbled off w ith the negatives, of which the 
proofs have now reached me from America. 


"When I first saw England," my father writes 
in his lecture upon George III., "she was in 
mourning for the young Princess Charlotte, the 




hope of the Empire. I came from India as a 
child, and our ship touched at an island on the 
way home, where my black servant took me a 
long walk over rocks and hills until we reached 
a garden where we saw a man walking. ' That 
is he,' said the black man. ' that is Bonaparte ; 
he eats three sheep every day and all the little 
children he can lay hands on ! ' " 

The Httle traveler must have been about six 
years old when he landed in England. He was 
sent to Fareham, in Hampshire, to the care of 
his mother's aunt and grandmother, where she 
had also lived as a child in the same quiet old 
house. '-Tri-x's house" it was called in those 
days, and still may be for all I know. It stood 
in Fareham High street, with pretty, old-fash- 
ioned airs and graces, and a high sloping roof 
and narrow porch. The low front windows 
looked across a flower garden into the village 
roadway, the back windows opened into a pleas- 
ant fruit garden sloping to the river. \\'hen I 
myself the other day read in " Prasterita " Rus- 
kin's exquisite description of the fruit-bearing 
trees and bushes in his own childish " Garden of 
Eden," straightway came to my mind a remem- 
brance, a vision, of the gooseberry and currant 
bushes at our Aunt Becher's, and of my little 
curly-haired sister sitting on the ground and 
filling her pinafore with fruit. We in turn, 
children of a fourth generation, were brought 
for a time to the old house. I can see it all as 
plain before me as if I was eight years old once 
more ; and I can remember hearing my grand- 
mother say that, according to her own remem- 
brance, nothing was changed from the time 
when she too had returned thither from India 
as a fatherless child to dwell in the quiet vil- 
lage for a decade of years, until she went back 
to India again at sixteen, dressed for the jour- 
ney in a green cloth riding-habit — so she used 
to tell us — to be married, and to be a mother, 
and widoVed, and married again before another 
decade had gone by. She never had any other 
child than my father. 

My sister and I, coming so long after, suc- 
ceeded to all her old traditions: to the oak 
stools standing in the window : to the httle 
white bed in the upper room ; to the garden 
leading to the river-bank. We made cowslip 
balls in the meadows (how often we had heard 

of them before we came to Fareham !). All our 
grandmother's stories came to life for us. We 
too had pattens to wear when it rained, we too 
had "willow" plates of our own, and cherry-pie 
on Sundays, and dry bread on week days; we 
too were forbidden butter by our old great- 
great-aunt as a pernicious luxury for children. 
AVe were afraid of the old aunt, but very fond 
of her, for she used to give us half-sovereigns, 
and send us charming letters in her beautiful 
handwriting. The little old house was as pleas- 
ant within as without ; big blue china pots stood 
in the corners of the sitting-rooms and of the 
carved staircase with its low steps. In the low- 
pitched front parlor hung the pictures (a Sir 
Joshua Reynolds among them) of generations 
not so far removed in my childish days as they 
are at present, being now buried away by suc- 
ceeding lives — "oil sous son pere on retrouve 
encore son pere comme I'onde sous I'onde dans 
une mer sans fond." 

My father's great-grandmother, Mrs. Becher, 
had sat to Sir Joshua in her youth — she died 
in 1825 at eighty-nine years of age. Her name, 
which the writer has inherited, was .\nne Hays- 
ham before she married, and we have a copy 
of the Sir Joshua portrait, representing a stately 
dame in the flowing draperies of the period. 
She lived in the old house at Fareham, after 
her husband's death ; she was the mother of 
many daughters and tempestuous sons. The 
sterner rule of those Spartan times did not al- 
ways quell the wild spirits of their rising gen- 
erations. My grandmother has often told me 
that Mrs. Becher never called her eldest daugh- 
ter anything but " Miss Becher " ; her little 
granddaughter was " Miss Nancy." She used 
to come and go leaning on a beautiful tortoise- 
shell-headed cane. I have played with the 
cane, though its owner died long before I was 
bom ; as for the great-aunt, I remember her 
perfectly well, a little old lady in a flaxen front 
with apple cheeks and a blue shawl, holding 
out her welcoming arms to the third generation 
of her brother John's descendants. When she 
died, she left her brother's picture out of the 
parlor to my grandmother, his only surviving 
daughter, and now in turn it hangs with its red 
coat upon our parlor wall. We are all very fond 
of our great-grandfather, with his nice coat and 




lace ruffles. He is, in the portrait, a young man 
of some twenty-five years of age, with an oddly 
familiar face, impulsive, inquisitive, — so he 
strikes me at least. His name was John 
Harman Becher, and he too went out to India 
and did good work there, and died )«oung, as 
did so many others — in those adventurous 
days. He was born in April, 1764, and died 
about 1800. 

Fareham itself, with its tall church spire and 
its peal of Sunday bells across the cowslip mead- 
ows, was a Miss-Austen-like village, peopled by 
retired naval officers and spirited old ladies who 
played whist every night of their lives and kept 
up the traditions of England, not without some 
asperity, as I well remember. Among other 
things which my grandmother has often de- 
scribed to us was the disastrous news of Nelson's 
death, coming to them all, in that same little 
parlor where, a few years after, little William 
Makepeace Thackeray sat, laboriously writing 
to his mother in India. 

This letter, the earhest we have, is addressed to 
" Mrs. R. Thackeray, care of Messrs. Palmer's, 
per P. of Orange, Calcutta." It took six months 
to reach its journey's end. 

My Dear Ma.m.a. I hope you are quite well. I have 
given my dear Grandmama a kiss my .\unt Ritchie is 
very good to me I like Chiswick there are so many 
good Boys to play with. St. James's Park is a very fine 
place. St. Pauls Church too I like very much it is a 
finer place than I expected. I hope Captain Smyth is 
well give my love to him and tell him he must bring you 
home to your affectionate little son 

\Vn.LiAM Thackeray. 

" WiUiam got so tired of his pen he could not 
write longer with it," says his great-aunt in a 
postscript to this Indian letter, " so he hopes you 
will be able to read his pencil . . . He drew 
me your house in Calcutta [she continues], not 
omitting his monkey looking out of the window 
and black Betty at the top dr)'ing the towels, 
and he told us of the number you collected on 
his birthday in that large room he pointed out 
to us ! " There are also a few words from an 
uncle written under the seal. " My dear Sister 
Anne, I have seen my dear little nephew and 
am dehghted with him." 

Besides all these postscripts there is a faint 
pencil sketch representing, as I imagine, Captain 

Carmichael-Smyth on horseback. That gentle- 
man was then just engaged to my grandmother, 
and was ever after the kindest of friends and 
parents to my father and to all of us. 

We have an interesting book compiled by a 
meinber of the family for private circulation, in 
which there is an account of my father as a 
child. " His habit of observation began very 
early," says Mrs. Bayne in this volume. '• His 
mother told me that once when only three or 
four years old, and while sitting on her knee at 
the evening hour, she observed him gazing up- 
ward and lost in admiration. ' Ecco,' he ex- 
claimed, pointing to the evening star, which 
was shining like a diamond over the crescent 
moon. This struck her the more as she had 
herself noticed the same beautiful combination 
on the night of his birth. ' Ecco ' was probably 
decco, which is Hindustanee for ' look ! ' I 
have often heard that when he first came to 
London and was driving through the city he 
called out, ' That is St. Paul's ! ' He had rec- 
ognized it from a picture. He was with his 
father's sister, Mrs. Ritchie, at the time, and 
she was alarmed by noticing that his uncle's 
hat, which he had put on in play, quite fitted 
him. She took him to Sir Charles Clarke, the 
great physician of the day, who examined him, 
and said, ' Don't be afraid ; he has a large head, 
but there is a great deal in it.' " 

The second of these early letters is addressed 
to Mrs. Carmichael-Smyth, Agra. It is written 
in a painstaking copperplate hand, but it is so 
evidently under superintendence that it is of 
much less interest than the others. He was 
then barely seven years old. 

April 24, 1818. 
Mv De.-vr Mama: I received your kind letter which 

Mrs. was so good as to read to me as I am not 

able to read your letters yet but hope I shall soon. I 
have lieen twice with George and Richmond to dine with 
Mr. Shakespear he was very kintl and gave me a great 
many pretty books to read and promised I should go 
every time George and Richmond went. I wrote a long 
letter in February and sent it to .\unt Becher to send to 
you. I have learnt Geography a long time, and have 
begun latin and cyphering which I like very much, pray 
give my love to Papa, I remain dear Mama yr dutiful son 

\V. Thackeray. 

Looking over some of my grandmother's 
early letters I find more than one mention of 






' .1 ^ / ^ / /• 


i '-'•y 

v^idij Uim^d&f-ci/fi^''^''nM) 

\&.ilf Vfii'^i 








my father. "I have had a delightful letter 
from my man," the mother writes from India, 
and then quoting from her own home corre- 
spondence she continues : " The day Charles 
[Col. Carmichael-Smyth] arrived, he [the boy] 
was in high spirits all day, but when he went 
to bed he could restrain no longer and burst 
into tears. The servant asked him why he 
cried. He said, ' I can't help it, to see one who 
has so lately seen m)- dear mother and to see 
her picture and the dear purse she has made 
for me ! ' " 


My father never spoke with any pleasure 
of his early school-days. As we drove to Rich- 
mond with him sometimes, he used to show 
us the comer of the lane at Chiswick which 
led to the school where all the "good boys" 
were learning their lessons. To this comer, 
soon after he entered school as a very little 
fellow, he ran away, and then was so fright- 
ened by the sight of the Hammersmith High 
Road that he ran back again, and no one was 


the wiser. Before he was sent to Chiswick, young Hves so miserable that I remember kneel- 

I believe he stayed, for some months only, ing by my little bed of a night, and saying. Pray 

at a school in Hampshire, where his cousins God I may dream of my mother." 

also were pupils. " I can remember George The next letter was written from Fareham : 

coming and flinging himself down upon my ^j^ dearest of all dear Mamas : I have much 

bed the first night," he wrote long after to his pleasure in writing to you again from Fareham to tell how 

cousin, Mrs. Irvine, sister of George and Rich- happy I am. I went to Roche Court to see Mr. and Mrs. 

mond Shakespear. This was that school of Thresher. I saw a birds nest with young ones in it, in 

, . , , , • ti „ T>„„„.^oK^,,f ■D^,^o.- a beautiful honevsuccle bush and a robbin's in another 

which he speaks in the Roundabout Paper, t~, ■ . - ^r . a %u t n if .„ 

' , , J , 11 place. This has been Neptune day with me 1 call it so 

" A school of which our deluded parents had ^^^^^^ j ^^ ;^^,^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^ ^^ ,i^^ Neptune. Your 

heard a favorable report, but which was gov- „i^ aquaintances are very kind to me and give me a 

emed by a horrible little tyrant who made our great many cakes and great many kisses but I do not let 

'P f /(Hire 0^0^ ci^au)//^r)<t^ ry^r ^^cy>' ^^ /,^ ^U -^m J. 

y 'y-/:^yn(/i*> u pr/<f. ^ykic^ C^y^oa Xa<e^,-^j A^^ ^^e^/* ^^ \ 

/'t^4j/o^ r<^i^ACy^J't>^^ i^l{!A<f-0-C^ O07r?/S.Xr^7'7''C ^i^CCy 

J '' ).>!//. XJ,^./i yic/, /^fii 





OCTUroOT^^OfyC^ nf-^M.jd'C'^O'^^ -01.0X7/. 4^ 



Charles Becher kiss me I only take those from the ladies — 
I don't have many from Grandmama. Miss English gives 
her very kind love to you and begs you will soon come 
home. Pray give my kindest love to Pappa. Aunt Becher 
bought me a Caliduscope it is a very nice one I have 
spent a very pleasant day at Catesfield. Miss O'Bryen 
gave me a very pretty jest book I should like you to have 
such another pretty house as Mrs. O'Bryen's, there is such 
a beautiful garden. I am grown a great boy I am three feet 
eleven inches and a quarter high I have got a nice boat, 
I learn some poems which you was very fond of such as 
the Ode on Music &c. I shall go on Monday to Chiswick 
to see my .\unt Turner and hear the boys speak. I in- 




tend to be one of those heroes in time, I am very glad I 
am not to go to Mr. Arthur's. I have lost my cough 
and am quite well, strong, saucy, and hearty; and can 
eat Granmama's goosberry pyes famously after which I 
drink yours & my Papas good health & a speedy return, 
believe me my dear Mama your dutiful son 

\V. Thackeray. 

My father must have been a sensitive little 
boy, quick to feel, not over strong, though well 
grown. He was always very short-sighted, and 
this in his school-days was a great trouble to 



him, for he could not join in the games with 
any comfort or pleasure, nor even see the balls 
which he was set to stop at cricket. In those 
days schools were not what they are now ; they 
were rough and ready places. He used to de- 
scribe dreadful arrangements of zinc, vrith oily 
streaks of soap floating on the black waters, 
which always sickened him, and which were all 
the materials that the little boys were allowed 

a perfect recollection of me ; he could not speak, 
but kissed me and looked at me again and again. 
I could almost have said, ' Lord, now lettest 
thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes 
have seen thy salvation.' He is the living image 
of his father, and God in heaven send he may 
resemble him in all but his too short life. He 
is tall, stout, and sturdy, his eyes are become 
darker, but there is still the same dear expres- 

>iy/vtu^ ^iw'-e (/iou^^ 6^- 



for their morning's ablutions. He suffered in 
health as well as in spirits, and he was often 
laid up. And it seems to be after one of these 
passing illnesses that the letter reproduced in 
fac-simile on pages 105 and 106 was written 
from Fareham, where he must have been sent 
to recover. But his troubles were almost at 
an end, for his mother was even then on her 
way home and he had no need to dream of her 
dear presence any more. 

This is her account of the meeting : " He was 
not at Chatham when we arrived, but Mr. 
Langslow brought him from Chiswick the next 
morning, for Mrs. Turner would not part with 
him till we came, that I might see him in full 
bloom : and truly he is so. dear soul. He had 


sion. He remembers you all perfectly. Aunt 
Maria, I think, is his favorite still. The moment 
he saw the gold knife, he said, ' Oh, my grand- 
mamma gave me this, and I poked Dash ^\'ith 
it.' His dra>ving is wonderful." 

After drawing Captain Smyth, the house in 
Calcutta, and Betty hanging out the clothes, as 
he did on his first arrival, the little boy went on 
to draw everything else that struck his fancy. 
He liked to draw, not so much the things he 
saw as the things he thought about: knights 
with heraldic shields, soldiers, brigands, drag- 
ons, and demons : his school-books were all oma- 





mented with funny fanciful designs, his papers 
were covered with them. When he was still 
quite a little fellow, he used to manufacture small 
postilions out of wafers, with the top-boots in 
ink and red coats neatly stuck on. As he got 
older, he took to a flourishing style, with split 
pens for his instruments, sketching gentlemen 
with magnificent wreaths of hair and flaps to 
their coats, ladies with wonderful eyes and lips, 
in style all curly and flourishing ; but these e.x- 
periments were in later years, after his mother's 
return from India. 

I gladly acceded to the request of the Editor 
of St. Nicholas, who asked me to forward 
with the rest of the papers two or three speci- 
mens of my father's childish drawings. They 
are taken at hazard from those in our posses- 
sion. Here* is one of the drawings which by 
the writing underneath should belong to these 
very early days when the young designer was 
but nine or ten years old. We must not fail 
to observe that the brave captain, kneeling for 
mercy, is poking out his companion's eye with 
his sword, while the gallant warrior in a cocked 
hat, standing up, is delivering two heavy purses 
to the constable (or highwayman ? ) with his club. 

Here are one or two more quotations from 
the mother's letters which run on about so 
many unknown things and people, and then 
here and there comes a little phrase or sen- 
tence belonging to one's own present world and 
dearest interests : 

" August, 1821. 

" My Billy-Man is quite well. I must tres- 
pass and give him a day or two of holidays. 
You would laugh to hear what a grammarian 
he is. We were talking about odd characters, 
some one was mentioned, I forget who. Billy 
said, ' Undoubtedly he is a Noun — Substantive.' 
' Why, my dear ? ' ' Because he stands by him- 

Here is the history of a relapse : 

" My poor Billy-Boy was getting better of his 
cough, and he was going into school when 
Henry unfortunately went to see him and gave 
him half-a-crown, with which iny little Gentle- 
man must buy a lump of cheese, which of all 
things you know was the very worst, and brought 
back the enemy." 

Then comes an account by the Mamma of 
the school of which the little scholar's impres- 
sions were so different. 

* See page 107. 







, J(|p'.3r»i:^: 

" I don't think there could be a better school 
for young boys. My William is now 6th in the 
school, though out of the 26 there are only four 
that are not older than himself He promises 
to fag hard till Midsummer that he may obtain 
a medal, and after that I think of placing him 
at the Charter House. . . . 

" He tells me he has seen the Prince Regent's 
Yacht in Southampton Water and the bed in 
which his Royal Highness breathes his /vva/ 

Again — 

" Billy-Man says, ' give my love to them all, 
/ w!s/i they would come over.' Here is the 


little figure he has done in a few 
minutes of Captain Bobadil ; it was 
a thick pencil and he could not 
make a good outline. He painted 
a little theater for young Forrest, or 
rather a scene with sides entirely 
from his own imagination, which 
Mrs. Forrest says was capital. 

" Our time is limited to the 19th, 
when I must be at Chiswick to hear 
my little hero hold forth — I don't know how I 
shall go through with it. They have not selected 
an interesting speech — Hannibal's address to 
his soldiers — which you must all read and 
fancy me and Billy-Boy — but you can't fancy 
such a great fellow." 

('an the picture on page 1 08 be Captain Bob- 
adil, or one of the scenes for the theater ? On 
this page is a thrilling incident from the Spanish 
Inquisition carefully painted and finished up by 
the httle artist. 


The letter which follows is the last of the 
early letters, and is dated in 1822, when its 


c/ccf^^.i-^/^^c^a /a^n: ^0/(97 

y/ . ^ ^ y -^ • 

//^^ ^^ a/,^cU ^/^, 

— :r ; ^ ^ ''''^'-^j'/f^^^ir/^ a^^ ,x^ c^. 



writer was eleven years old. His stepfather i"k and all I hope you will wrile to me soon at least 

had been appointed Governor of Addiscombe, "f'"^^'' '^^" y°" ^'^ 1^^' q"^'"='' '^ '^" """^ =*" ^^out 

J,. ,.- „ „. 11, Addiscombe & the Gentlemen Cadets and tell me if Papa 

and his own hte at Orey-tnars had bet'un. , ^ , ., .i . -n £. i.- nr i, i ij 

-' ° has got a /Mi" that will fit hun. My hands are so cold 

tliat I can hardly write. I have made a vow not spend 

Charter House, Jan. 20, 1822. that five shilling piece you gave me till I get into the 

My dear Mother : 8th form which I mean to ask for tomorrow. The holi- 

I am now going to begin bothering you days begin on the 23rd of .^pril but it wants 13 weeks 

that letter I wrote to Butler was only a bit of a preface I to them it will be your time to ask me out in three 

dare say you are surprised to see me use a whole sheet weeks two more Saturdays must pafs and then it will be 

of paper but I have laid in a stock for the quarter pens the time for me to go out. Is Butler gone to .Addis- 


J? / f * •' ■ ' 

// ^ ' ' / ■' ' ' " 

/ ^ ■ ■ ■ ' ' 



■<'>'/- J-tc/L' /■ «' .v-^V. A>; -v./.'^''- 


combe with you ? We have got a new master hii name travel Oil the stage-COach when the long-ex- 
is Dickin — Dickins or Dickinson. Give my love to pgcted holidays Came round at last.* 

Papa and I remain Yours truly ti r i- • c ^\. ^ 1 c o 

,,, ,, T, 1 he frontispiece ot the present number of St. 

W. M. Thackeray. ' ' 

,,, .. . . , Nicholas is engraved from the photograph of 

Write again as quick .as you can. " 101 

a bust of little William Makepeace Thackeray 

Eventually, Major and Mrs. Carmichael- which was made in the same year as that to 

Smyth settled at Fairoaks, near Ottery St. which this last letter belongs. A foreigner called 

Mary, whither the little schoolboy used to Devile, or Delile, came over with an ingenious 

* One of the very earliest of my memories is that of an old servant, a toothless " old John," in knee-breeches, 
who had followed the family fortunes from Devonshire to Coram street, where my father and mother lived in 
London. His picture is to be seen in Pendennis, with a coal-scuttle. 

W. M. T1!ACKLRA\" 

(LV J Lk.Mi.-.Slu.\ 

>^v^tl^ COMPANY.) 

process for taking people's portraits by casts 
which he afterwards worked up and put to- 
gether, and, thanks to his skill, we possess this 
really admirable portrait of the boy as he was 
on the ist of June, 1822, which is the date upon 
the pedestal. The letter, it will be seen, is dated 
in January of 1822. 

I am glad to be able to add to these glimpses 
and mementos of his early life a picture that 
represents my father as I remember him best. 
The frontispiece shows him as a boy ; the en- 

graving on this page is from the last photograph 
ever taken of him. All a lifetime lies between 
the two portraits, all its sorrows and successes, 
its work and its endurance. No words of mine 
are needed to point out the story. As a boy, as 
a man, my father held to the truth as he felt it 
to be, to the duties and courageous things of 
life. He bore much trouble with a brave, cheer- 
ful heart, and he made all who belonged to him 
happy by his generous trust in them, and his 
unchangincf tenderness and affection. 


By Helen Thayer Hutcheson. 


All the folks that live out here, 
Wish you Merry Christmas, dear! 
Funny, furry little hares. 
After dark, when no one cares, 
Come to dance upon the snow. 
Glad it 's Christmas time, you know. 

And the litde cliickadees, — 
You would think their feet would freeze,- 
They sit chirping, gay enough, 
With their feathers in a fluff, 
" Merry Christmas, when it comes, 
Gives us aU a lot of crumbs ! " 

And your dear old friend, the crow. 
He and all his brothers go 
Teetering across the snow, 
Two-and- twenty in a row : 
Every crow with one keen eye 
For the changes in the sky. 
And another for the ground 
And whatever 's to be found. 
Oh ! the crows look sly and queer 
Just about this time of year 1 
If they 'd only tell in sleep 
All the secrets that they keep ! 
Don't you s'pose they know it 's right 
To hang a stocking up at night ? 
Don't you s'pose they know this minute 
Everj'thing there will be in it ? 

People used to half-believe 

Cows could talk on Christmas eve. 

Standing parient in the stall, 

When the night began to fall ; 

That they talked of that strange sight 

In a stable Christmas night. 

Don't you wonder if they do ? 

Don't you wish that it was true ? 

Stars at Christmas, don't you think. 

Have a sort of knowing wink ? 

And the flowers underground 

Asleep when Christmas comes around, — 

Don't you think it really seems 

As if they must have Christmas dreams ? 

Happy dreams be yours, my dear, 
Christmas night, and all the year ! 


Trill, trill, trill. 

Sweet and shrill. 
From the dark side of a stone ; 

Summer is flown away, 

Clover is made into hay, 
Autumn nights are chill ; 

Trill away, little Cricket ! 
Out in the dark alone. 

Trill, trill, trill, 

The tree-tops are still, 

Never a katydid about 
And the firefly's torches are burned out. 

Trill away, little Cricket ! 
The stars listen, no doubt. 

Trill! trill! trill! 

A summer tune 
Makes not November June. 

Everything has an end. 

And so has thy song, little friend I 
Tweak ! the frost nips — thou art still ! 

\oJ.. XVII.— 14. 





[Dame Gillian Fenn tells the tale to her chil- 
dren, and others of her household, — all seated 
round a blazing fire, — on Christmas eve, of the 
Year of Grace 1652, in olden-time Virginia] : 

Well, well ! all 's ready for the morrow, thank 
patience ! with making and baking, roasting 
and toasting, fairly done. And what will ye be 
having to-night, pray ? That same old tale of 
Indian Simon that I did tell you once afore ? 
Welladay ! if it pleased you so rarely at first 
time o' hearing, I '11 e'en tell 't again. 'T is no 
such smooth-tripping a merry-go-round as some 
folk like best this season, nor hath it merry end- 
ing, neither — for all some lives were saved by 
the turn o't ; but 't is only fair, I 'm thinking, 
that you young ones should be made acquaint 
with what your forebears did suffer and adventure 
a-planting tliis New World. Ye may set your- 
selves up to do great things, mayhap, i' the days 
to come — but if e'er ye 've a mind to go brag- 
ging, wh)', look ye first behind. 'T will do you 
no harm, I warrant. Folk should set proper 
store by homes so hard-won from the wilder- 
ness, nor grudge honest tilling o' the ground 
that was so well watered with fathers' blood. 
Aye, aye ; 't is peace and good wiU, this Christ- 
mas eve, an' good cheer a plenty, to boot ; but 
as for the winning o't all, that was no such peace- 
ful a matter, as ye may reckon. Howsoever, 
bless God ! we need fear no Indian screechery 
breaking in, like on that time, to spoil talk to- 

night. There 's naught worse than the wind 
outside, or maybe a wolf or two, now and again. 
Stir ye the coals and pile on the logs, — Dickon, 
Jacky. We '11 tell it all once more — and he 
shall have most cakes an' beer at the end, with 
nuts to crack no less, that proveth the keenest 

— Now, 't was after a right strange manner of 
happening that the lad Simon Peter did first 
come to dwell amongst us; which same (for 
that ye may the better understand mine own 
proper tale i' the telling) I will now in brief 
relate the ins and outs of Truly, his descent 
was from none too good nor too happy a stock, 
as nobody might deny. 'T was of that heady 
and high-stomached tribe called Pianketank, 
who rose up to their own undoing 'gainst the 
old cruel king, Powhatan, not long afore the 
coming of the English into Virginia. So that 
tribe did he swiftly and most furiously fall upon 
and slay to the last man (as he then purposed 
and believed), with all the rest of his several 
under-tribes helping him thereto in vengeance. 
And when they were all so bloodily done to 
death, he did cause to be cut off and stringed on 
a string, all a-row, the ears of men, women, and 
children — and there were they hanged up be- 
t\vixt two trees in front of his palace door. A 
brave sweet sight, i' faith, and a most pleasant for 
his royal eyes to gaze on, and also a signal warn- 
ing 'gainst such like rebeUious oftense. There 
were they seen by no less than Captain John 
Smith himself, with others of his company, — to 



their great mislike and amazement, — as was 
aftertime ^mt down by him in his " True Rela- 
tion " of Virginia matters, and may to this day 
be read. Howsoever, it happened that, despite 
this murtherous and savage disposal, there 
remained yet a very little remnant of the tribe 
Pianketank, being scarce one score souls in all, 
who got them away, at the first alarm, in swift 
flight from the slayers and hid in the dark wil- 
derness till after King Powhatan, in passage of 
years, died and was buried. E'en then, 't was 
said, they durst hardly venture out save in a 
very secret way. But seeing that none molested 
them, and also that their persecutors' minds had 
changed with vastly changing times all o'er the 
land, they came at last boldly forth as any, and 
settled them upon the woody waste that even 
to this day lieth uncleared, northward of the 
road to James City. So there they builded their 
wigwams on a hillock not far from the way, and 
no man hindered or any-nise denied them need- 
ful range for hunting, fishing, and such Uke get- 
ting of where\\athal to Hve. As for the white 
men thereabout, they were the rather overkind, 
I do reckon, as, to such marked unfortunates, 
one naturally disposeth. Yet, as folk soon 'gan 
to say, 't was like enough that fault o' the former 
quarrel with Prince Powhatan was not all on 
one side. "What 's bred i' the bone will- out i' 
the flesh," as the old saw runneth, and so it came 
to pass full soon with these poor down-trod and 
distrest Pianketanks. 'T was not alone an eU 
they 'd be content with, being given an inch, but 
a thousand miles, more like. In greedy tricks, 
malice, pride, laziness, and fierce-mouthed brags, 
they, waxing ever more insolent, grew daily worse 
and worse — and as for Jack o' the Feather, he 
was of them all the most past Christian bearing. 
Now his sure-enough Indian name was not 
Jack, but Nemattanow ; only the English called 
him Jack o' the Feather, because of his saucy 
tongue, an' because of his being always so finely 
rigged up with feathers in the wild fashion of 
his sort. For tho' 't was naught uncommon to 
see those foolish heathen creatures so bedeckt 
and set off with plumage of birds by them 
caught or killed, yet never another one was seen 
to match this Jack in such outlandish bravery 
and ornamentation. One day 't would be an 
eagle's plume, mayhap, the next a turkey-wing 

— or goodness knoweth what new thing or 
t' other! There be wiser folk than he in this 
world that think fine feathers make fine birds, 
but this same Jack was an ill bird, I do reckon, 
for all his royal blood. He was next of kin to 
the chieftain, or king, as they called him (after 
their high and mightj' way), who was killed in 
the former massacre, that time — so being by 
blood, as in natural humor, the leader and ruler 
o' his crew, in mischief as in all else. A king 
well-nigh without subjects, good sooth ! and in 
right make-a-shift case ; yet the lacking in pomp 
was out-doubled in pride, I trow, and so his fall 
came round. 

Now, it did so chance one day in a busy time 
of harvest, that Master Thomas Godkyn, his 
nighest neighbor, would have Jack o' the 
Feather go an errand for him to Jamestown 
for one bushel of com in payment thereof. It 
was easy earning of good bread, but my royal 
red gentleman having no mind for such honest 
humble ser^ce, not he, and giving a short and 
saucy back-answer. No, with some brag of his 
kingly blood, moreover, — why, then, Master 
Godkyn, mightily put about and vext by the 
denial, did burst out scornfully a-laughing at 
that, sa}'ing, " I pray your High Majesty's 
pardon. I' faith, I did forget your High Majes- 
tical state," quoth he, " O fine king o' beggars 
in a palace o' poles ! " Whereupon he laughed 
again, " Ho, ho ! " a-tuming on his heel ; but 
as for Jack o' the Feather, he looked a most 
black an' devilish look, as who would fain 
strike that other dead ^Wth 's tomahawk for very 
rage, and (crjdng out fiercely in his Indian 
speech) said, " Paleface fool ! Thou laughest 
loud to-day, but I will laugh louder to-morrow." 

So then Master Godkyn, making that out 
shrewdly to be threat of evil, did bethink him 
that he would look keenly to any such risk. 
But maUce hath many ways to creep as well as 
run, — an' who may guard him 'gainst the cruel 
cunning of that murtherous red people ? 'T was 
the very next mom, just afore day-breaking, that 
he, being waked up from sleep by a most fear- 
some bellowing and groaning, as of some great 
brute-beast in death pain, went out and found — 
lo and behold ! — his brave bull, that had cost 
a pretty price in England, besides the fetching 
of it hither, there was it, a-lying i' the meadow, 




ham-Stringed, and in such a case as might not 
be anywise holpen save with a bullet through 
the heart for pity's sake. 

Now, small need was there for guessing (as 
everybody said) whose wicked deviltry this 
might be. And some of the neighboring white 
people would be for shooting Jack o' the Feather 
with the same gun wherewith they had dis- 
patched the bull. " Kill him ! kill him ! " cried 
these hot-blooded ones, and had well-nigh set 
off furiously so to do, without judge or trial, 
only my father — Master Barrow — said nay to 
that. "We will not so bring blood-guiltiness 
on us, neighbors," saith he, " for all that such 
mischief may no longer lodge amongst us. We 
will but give him fair warning to quit these parts 
straightway, on pain o' death. Then, if he do 
prove contrary and resist, his blood be on his 
head." So, that being agreed on, the warning 
was given accordingly ; and as for that villain, 
though he did bitterly deny the bloody fact, he 
durst not tarry long to prove him innocent, in 
sooth, for by next daybreak he was clean gone, 
with all his fellows and belongings (as was first 
supposed), nobody knew which way or whither. 

'T was on the even of that same day that my 
father, a-passing nigh those wigwams, so left 
standing lonesome and empty, did hear a very 
little wailing voice right piteously crying. So 
he stopped and listened, and being distrest 
thereby (for the sound of it, as I have heard 
him say a-many a time, would touch heart of 
stone) he went to find what that might be. 
And there, lo ! what doth he come across, weep- 
ing 'mongst the cold ashes all frighted and alone, 
but Jack o' the Feather's own child, — and a 
mere baby lad, at that, — by those most wicked 
creatures left behind to perish, with neither fire 
nor victual. 

Now, whether he had hid himself away (after 
the roguish trickery of such very little ones) and 
so could not be found at time of their hasty set- 
ting oi^", or whether he was so left a-purpose in 
cold blood from the notion of their flight being by 
him hampered. Heaven knoweth, not I ! Yet 
there was he, to a certainty, and piteously fam- 
ished withal ; and so my father, being a feeling- 
hearted man, did fetch him home that night to 
our house. For mine own self, I was but a lit- 
tle babe in arms that time, but afterward heard 

tell enough concerning the surprise and wonder- 
ment of it — and the vexedness of my poor 
mother at this turn. Truly she was ever set 
'gainst this outside stranger, e'en from the first, 
but as for Dickon and Francis, they were right 
well joyed with a new playfellow. Mayhap about 
three year old did he seem, and nigh Francis in 
tallness, though not so bigly set. Words had 
he, a plenty, when that his tears were dried an' 
he fairly warmed and fed, but all in the barbar- 
ous Indian tongue, such as not even my father 
might make head or tail of, save only here and 
there. And being asked his name, as was made 
shift to do, he cried out loud and proudly, a- 
clapping his two hands together, " Totapota- 
moi ! Totapotamoi ! Totapotamoi ! " Whereat 
our lads laughed, for the right strange, curious 
sound thereof. And my mother, she cried, 
" Lord ha' mercy upon the wild heathen crea- 
ture! " But my father said, right soberly, " 'T is 
good enow for a savage, an' hath a pretty ring 
i' the sound on 't — an' that 's truth. Notwith- 
standing," saith he on, " 't is no proper title for 
any decent tame creature in Christian house- 
hold." So he named him Simon Peter from 
that hour — by which name he was soon after 
brought to christening ; and that did we ever 
call him. 

And thus it did hap that he first came to 
dwell amongst us. 

Now, as I have afore said, my mother was 
ever misliking of it from the very first thereof. 
Sore vext was she, poor soul, because that my 
father would have the likes o' such brought up 
'mongst his own; for she was high-notioned in 
the matter of our company-keeping, as is but 
natural to the gentle-bom; — yet as to my father, 
he was but a yeoman's son i' the old country 
and had been a rough fighter 'gainst ill fortune 
most o' his days, so set small store by such com- 
parisons i' quality. And when my mother would 
be sending Simon to the kitchen in a servant's 
place (for we had a fair sizable house, buOded 
all of stone, with kitchen and offices thereto, 
separate and orderly as any in old land or new), 
why, then the master said stoutly nay to that 
measure. " What, wife," quoth he, a-smiling so 
plaguingly wthal, " shall we so serve this prince ? 
Is he not of the king's blood, forsooth ? an' to 
be so packed off in kitchen 'mongst common 


serving men an' maids ! Fie, fie ! " saith he ; 
whereat the mistress crieth, " A pretty prince, 
indeed ! " and tossed her head, a-looking but 
scornfully upon the poor Indian finery (with 
beads, gewgaws, an' such like, all tarnished an' 
meanly make-a-shift as 't was) of the dark little 
lad. Then saith she, " What ! wilt thou even 
such a swarth-skin with thine own children, at 
bed an' board ? As well buy them a blacka- 
moor brother from the Dutch ship, forsooth ! 
I 'm thinking 't would be all of a piece." Yet 
my father spake in a right grave way, saying, 
" Nay, wife, if thou canst not see the difference 
betwixt a blackamoor an' such as this one, I pity 
thy poor sight. I see God's hand i' this matter," 
quoth he, "and, if the child is let alone by his 
own people to bide peaceably amongst us, it shall 
be share an' share alike. Nay, nay ; my young 
ones shall have no slaves to their ordering, red- 
skinned or black, to make them saucy an' master- 
ful. I Hke the look of this Simon Peter right 
well, for all the father of him being Jack o' the 
Feather. He shall have fair chance, by St. 
George ! — for I 've a mind to play a game with 
nature in this business. Aye, we will see where 
Dame Nature endeth and breeding doth begin — 
and if his father cometh to claim him some day 
(for all 't is not likely he '11 be taking any such 
pains), why, we '11 e'en give the boy his choice, 
to go or stay, an' see how then." 

"Aye, aye!" saith my mother, "we will 
see." Still, notwithstanding, she made no more 
ado that time, save to make sure of Simon Peter 
being shrewdly stript of his outlandish rags and 
cleaner-washen than e'er he 'd been in his life 
before, I reckon, for all he did most irefully 
resist the same with howUng. And after that 
he was drest in a fair change of Francis's 
clothes, the while his own new ones were a- 

So this way did it continue as my father said. 
And we four children, being Dickon and Francis 
and Simon Peter, with httle poor me, that was 
the one girl to herself 'mongst the lads' game- 
some roughness — we four did grow up together 
as brothers an' sister ; scarce anywise remem- 
bering (for all we might daily see in outside 
looks) the difference in blood. Nay, I will tell 
true an' say out — howe'er some do think it 
■shameth nature — that I loved Simon the best 


o' the three. He was the kindest and the lov- 
ingest to me, I trow ; not that the other ones 
durst be contrariwise, — or would, — but 't was 
Simon that ever tarried behind with me if I 
fell back a-weary by hard following after the 
rest. Sometimes he bore me on his back 'cross 
the stony ground or thro' the running water — 
a-holding on for dear life round his neck. And 
when I 'd a mind to be playing with my doll 
Queen Bess at a brave feast, with wine in acorn 
cups and the like child's play-acting foolery, 
why, 't was ever Frank an' Dicky that mocked 
and would fain turn all naughtily upside down, 
to plague me, had not Simon so stoutly stood 
my part against them. 

Now, as to the color of his skin (that some 
amongst you listening would so mislike, may- 
hap), I being used to it life-long, in a manner, 
was nowise frighted at that. For the rest, he 
was comely enough. His eyes, they were of a 
very dark blackness, but piercing keen and 
bright ; his hair was black and straight down- 
hanging, and not soft to touch, tho' he would be 
oft a-laying his head beside me to be stroked with 
my two hands. Slim-shapen as a maid was he 
and fair-featured, like to the pictures of Princess 
Pocahontas herself, whom some accounted beau- 
tiful — and his hands and feet were scarce big- 
ger than mine own. Yet, for all thus lightsomely 
builded, his strength was to the strength of 
Francis an' Dickon as steel to wood, be it never 
so hard wood and heavy, or a silken cord, hard 
twisted, to a rude hempen string. There was 
never a horse that could throw him after that 
he was big enough to sit well astride its back — 
not even the wildest colt of all on that land 
— when the lads would be riding them to water 
morn and even, or mayhap (for the learning 
of horsemanship) around i' the pasture field. 
Francis an' Dick had many a tumble, I promise 
you, but Simon never a one. At running, wrest- 
ling, and all such, who but he ? Then surely, I 
do reckon, there was never another so wondrous 
quick at book-learning, so knowledgeable and 
cunning skillful in all ways. Nay, time would 
fail me to tell you the half of his ingenious de- 
visings. Such curious things as he would oft 
be cutting with his knife, to be sure ! — as beasts, 
birds, fishes, and what not, — aye ! even human 
Hkenesses no less, out of slate, stone, or wood, or 




maybe naught but a handful of damson seeds; 
and for snaring of wildwood game or catching 
of fish, his niatcli was never seen. 

Howsoever, despite of these advantagements, 
and despite of general good behavior in decent 
Christian manner o' life, yet, crost in humor, was 
he still (as my mother scrupled not to say out, 
when by him displeasured) the son o' his father 
and true child of lawless race. Can one be 
holden guilty of his birth-shame, good sooth, 
or cast out the blood that naturally runneth in 's 
veins ? Nay, not so — meseemeth. Therefore 
it did sorely hurt me to hear my mother ever 
blaming Simon with all that went amiss 'twixt 
him and Francis. She was a good woman, 
Heaven rest her ! and true lover of them she 
did love, but yet they were precious few so 
fayored, and Simon not one amongst them. 
Now, with Dickon (he being of a rare sweet 
humor) did Simon carry it peaceably enow; 
but with Francis, who was heady and stubborn- 
tempered as Simon himself, — aye, quicker to 
make mad, tho' not so fierce i' the end — as for 
those two, they would be often at odds. And 
one day, when she did come upon these twain, 
a-fighting tooth and nail, with Francis under- 
most an' like to get the worst on 't, then she 
cried out on Simon, for a heathenish beggar's 
brat, who would come to hanging or shooting 
yet, as 't was to be hoped his father had 'fore 
now. 'T was a right cruel word, there 's no 
denying ; yet was she sorely vext, for her excuse. 
However, he turned upon her with so tiger- 
fierce a look that she, stepping back, cried out, 
" What, snake-eye ! wilt thou murther me as I 
stand ? " 

And so he looked a'most ready to do, in 
sooth ; but up cometh my father then, who 
was a just man to see the rights and wrongs of 
such quarrels, and quoth he, " Foolish w-oman, 
wilt thou put thought o' such evil into him 
that 's but a passionate child ? Was 't not fair 
fight betwixt them till thou didst stir up this ? 
Look well to thine own \villful young one, an' 
leave the lad to me." 

So, after that time my mother was carefuller 
of such vexing speech ; yet she liked Simon 
Peter no whit more in her heart. 

Aye, aye; he was no gentle lamb, in truth, 
nor neither was our Francis for the matter o' 

that — but Simon was ever kind and loving 
enough unto me. 

But yet ye must not be thinking that this was 
ever the way o't with us. We 'd a happy home 
as any, for all such quarrelings now and again. 
There was work to be done, a plenty, on the 
new rugged land, and no negro slaves to tempt 
white folk into idly looking on the while they be 
driven as brute-beasts to toil an' moil. Some 
few had the Dutch ships fetched, e'en then, for 
trial, but my father would none of them. So 
when that the lads were grown big enough, they 
must needs be a-working i' the corn-fields and 
tobacco ground, whilst I, with my mother and 
the maids indoors, was learning of house matters, 
as becometh a proper girl. Yet we 'd no stint 
of sports, in due season. 'T was gayly and free 
we were i' the summer evens, I promise you ; 
yet the best of all came round on winter nights, 
when, the work being all foredone, we might 
sit us down by the fire so curiously a-listening 
to our father's talk an' tellings of former times. 
A many fine tales we heard then, concerning the 
first comers-over to Virginia, their hardships, 
trials, and very dreadful sufferings in every sort ; 
and of the great Captain John Smith, that was 
so bold a fighter, and likewise of the most gentle 
Princess Pocahontas, who did risk her life for 
the saving of his, and was afterward, in her lov- 
ing-kindness, the savior of this whole Virginia 
from destruction ; also concerning the old poli- 
tic King Powhatan, his state and majestical be- 
havior — and I promise you that Simon would 
be alway keenly hearkening to that. Also, my 
father told us about the dark time of the famine 
at Jamestown, when our people did, for very 
starving hunger, horridly eat the carcasses of 
such amongst them as had of hunger died ; and 
that was what Dickon liked best of all to hear ; 
but, for my part, I would the rather choose the 
wreck of the ship " Sea- Venture," that was 
casted away on the Bermuda Isles, a-com- 
ing to Virginia, and how one Master William 
Shakspere, 'way off in England, hearing o't 
aftenvhile, did make it into an acting play called 
" The Tempest " — that is oft played i' London 
Town to this very day. 

So time passed, year after year, till our Dickon 
was a great lad, with Francis and Simon turned 
thirteen year old, and me 'most counting ten; 



and then came to pass those strange, curious 
happenings whereof I will now relate. 

Now, all this while that Simon so dwelt con- 
tentedly amongst us we did never hear aught to 
a certainty of Nemattanow, called Jack o' the 
Feather. One time, or twice, came a bruit from 
'way off yonder, as how such an one had espied 
him here, or another there ; and once somebody 
told it that he had been catched sight of in the 
great Indian town to northward, on York River, 
a-ruffling it with the other braves and in high 
favor with the king, Opechancanough. How- 
soever, he troubled us not, all this so long while, 
and well-nigh had we forgot him, in sooth, till 
on a luckless day at last we 'd a pretty prick o' 
the memory ! 

Now, 't was one fair even in May-month o' 
the year 1622, when this turn on a sudden came 
to pass. 

I mind me right well, as 't were but yester 
eve, how the sky did shine all of a rosy golden 
color, and the little winds did blow so softly, 
with smell o' May-blooms and sound o' bird- 
songs every which-a-way. 'T was milking-time, 
a bit past sundown, and all of us out nigh the 
cow-pen down i' the meadow. And my father 
and mother so leisurely looked on whilst the 
maids milked; yet we children did care naught 
how much went dairy-way so we 'd only our fill 
o' the syllabub and our sport with the youngling 
calves. And there were we, so merrily together, 
when who doth come walking out of the wood's 
edge hard by and so boldly into our very midst 
but an Indian man that I 'd never before set 
eyes on. 

Now, he was of a tall stature, and fierce-ap- 
pearing withal. His skin was mighty dark and 
weather-worn. His quiver for arrows was fash- 
ioned out of a wolf's hide, with the natural head 
right grisly hanging down, having a sort of wild 
terror i' the look o't. In his right hand he did 
carry a great bow, and also in the way of war- 
like arms a tomahawk set in 's leathern girdle. 
Upon his shoulders, breast, and legs, that were 
naked and sunburnt to blackness, were painted 
stripes and rings in divers colors commingled. 
Round his neck and wrists did hang great strings 
o' beads, right gaudily colored — and for all his 
fierce aspect he 'd earrings, like any woman, 
a-dangling from his ears. Atop of his head the 

hair stood up bristling in a narrow ridge, after 
the way of a cockscomb, from brow to nape, 
but 't was clean shaven away on both sides; 
and out-topping all — being someway outland- 
ishly stuck i' the very crown o' the ridge — was 
a prodigiously great and long eagle's feather. 

Then all of us stopped short our doings as he 
drew nigh, for gazing curiously upon him. And 
in answer to mannerly good-even of us all, he 
did give, as 't were, a grunt, after the fashion of 
his people, belike ; yet when my father saith to 
him then, " Sir, what is your business here this 
even ? " he said not a word, only he stood stead- 
fastly looking upon Simon. 

So then we did all turn the same way, and 
behold! Simon had gone ashen-white under 
his natural brownness ; and he stood stone-still, 
a-staring at that other, like, mayhap, as when 
one doth see on a sudden the ghost of somebody 
long dead, and well-nigh forgot, beck to him out 
o' the darkness. And whiles we all so stood, in 
wonder, the Indian man, pointing to his own 
breast, did say, in a harsh voice, "Me father, 
me father ! " and then, pointing to Simon straight, 
said, " He son, he son ! " Which spoken he 
waved his hand back that way he had come 
and cried in a louder voice right fiercely, saying, 
" Son go with father ! " 

Then Simon answered ne'er a word, but my 
father spoke up, crying, " Ha ! Jack o' the 
Feather ! I thought I had seen thy rascally face 
before. Barest thou set foot in these parts again ? 
A pretty father thou art, that didst leave thy son 
to starve ! 'T is no thanks to thee, I trow, that 
he is 'Hve an' well to-day, an' by right and might 
I swear he shall not go with thee, fellow, except 
he himself do so choose ! " 

Then saith he to the lad, " Simon Peter, this 
is in truth thy father, of whose kindness to thee 
thou 'st often heard tell. Wilt thou willingly go 
with him ? " 

But yet Simon was as one dumb, speaking no 
word ; only he shook in every limb as struck by 
a shaking ague. And Jack o' the Feather, see- 
ing that, saith unto him a few words, right low, 
— i' the Indian tongue, I reckon, for they were 
such as none among us sensed the meaning of. 
Now 't was little of that speech that Simon did 
by this while remember, save a word o't here 
an' there, half lost in 's mind. Howsoe'er, when 

I 20 



that he did hear it now spoken, he looked in a 
wild way, as when one heareth in dreams a very 
strange back-drawing voice of witchery that he 
may scarce resist but is yet death-frighted to fol- 
low. In faith, I was like to cry out loud that 
moment — for I did think by the look o' his 
eyes then that he was going sure enow. Never- 
theless was there no need for such fear, for he 
on a sudden put his two hands over his face and 
cried out with a loud voice, " No ! no ! no ! I 
will not go with thee ! " 

Now, that hearing, the Indian looked a very 
black, murtherous look, and laid hand on his 
tomahawk, but my father, stepping quick afore 
the lad, saith unto him, " Begone ! " in such voice 
as e'en Jack o' the Feather dare not brook, I 
ween. Go he did, of a truth, an' that straight- 
way, yet slept he slow and proudly, as in very 
vexing scorn ; and at the wood's edge he turned 
him round and waved his bow in threating way, 
as half in mind to shoot. Howbeit, that he did 
not, but passed into the dark forest, and we saw 
him no more. And, I promise you, e'en my 
mother did carry it right lovingly to Simon 
that night. 

Now the chance that did befall Jack o' the 
Feather that same even, aye, within the very 
same hour, was none of our fault, thank Heaven ! 
yet truly scarce more than his fair desert and no 
just cause of grieving to anybody. 'T was as he 
was making so hardily, and in a swaggering 
manner o' boldness, along the open highway, 
that whom doth he meet, face to face, but Mas- 
ter Thomas Godkyn! Small wonder (as was 
commonly said by all) that Master Godkyn 
waxed right mad at that sight. Be that as may, 
he was ever a passionate man, besides that time 
somewhat in liquor, no less, an' there passed 
sharp words betwixt 'em on that old matter o' 
the maimed bull. 'T was Jack o' the Feather 
that struck first blow (as Master Godkyn did after- 
time solemnly swear) and 't was Master GodkjTi 
that slew him in the fight that so followed. And 
all the neighbors said 't was no harm, but the 
rather a safe riddance o' mischief As to the 
manner of that fight, I do remember it well, 
having oft with mine own ears heard him, our 
neighbor, relate the same. A shrewd tussle it 
was, he did use to say, an' betwixt two that were 
o'envell matched to make one the easy master; 

and so a-saying would he shake head right so- 
berly thereupon, at mere after calling o't to mind. 
'T was the red man that struck first blow, as I 
said afore. " Mayhap the gallows will be high 
enow. Sir Jack, for even your top notions," quoth 
Master Godkyn, and, hearing this spoken, lo ! 
that other gave a very brutish, fierce cry, and 
flinging behind him his great bow (which same 
was no ready weapon in such sudden encounter), 
he made at Master Godkyn with his tomahawk. 
Howsoever, that stroke, for all it did start the 
blood (and that from no mere skin-scratch, 
neither), fell somewhat short, belike, — and e'en 
whilst he raised the murtherous thing aloft for 
another down-come, why, then did Master God- 
kyn with a swift cunning dash o' the fist, that he 
had learnt long agone when a young sporting 
lad in England, strike it clean out of his hand. 
So there was Jack o' the Feather fairly disarmed ; 
but yet, in sooth, the worst o't was still to come 
for Master Godk)-n ; for when he would essay to 
draw his good knife from his belt, why, what doth 
that savage but clip him on a sudden in 's arms 
as who would then and there squeeze very heart 
and life out of his body. He was a strong proper 
man as the most, was Master Godkyn, and stoutly 
builded, to give blow or withstand, but a many 
a time have I heard him say how on the first 
amaze of this besetment he was but as little chick 
in the coil of a black whip-snake. Truly this 
weakness did in a moment pass — for the fear 
of a sudden death maketh strong — and even as 
Master Godkyn did feel his breath going from 
him he made shift to catcli it again. Whereupon 
'gan the struggle in good earnest. For that Indian, 
his arms were as iron hard, and cruel strong, and 
his ribs were as brass ; yet was the white man 
he had thus laid hold on, not one to stand still 
an' be crushed in any such devil's-trap. There 
they had it, for sure, this way, that, an' t' other, 
— a-straining and a-tugging for dear life 'gainst 
foul death. 'T was a right curious turn o' the 
mind (so Master Godkyn said afterward), and 
such as the like of had ne'er before come unto 
him, but 't was sure-enough truth, no less, that 
he did remember and see plain, 'fore his senses 
in a moment, nay, in the twinkling of an eye, that 
time, all things he had ever done and said of good 
or ill, life-long. Also it came to him in a sharp, 
raging way, as 't were a dagger struck through 




the heart, how many perils he had 'scapen, by 
land and sea, to fall now, mayhap, by such base 
means at last. So ran this thought within him, 
lightning-quick and furious : What ! was 't for 
this he did over-live the sweating-sickness in 
London Town, and the fight w ith pirates a-com- 
ing 'cross the ocean 
( wherein so many 
bold fellows were 
bloodily cut down), 
and the wreck of the 
"Sea-Venture" (for 
he was one o' that 
company), an' all 
the starving-time at 
Jamestown — with 
many other notable 
dangers, past men- 
tion — to die not 
Christianly in his 
bed at last, but in 
sudden unbeknown 
fight with a red In- 
dian knave, and he 
not even accounted 
anybody 'mongst his 
own people. Then 
that was a bitter- 
black thought, for- 
sooth, but yet, may- 
be, the saving o' his 
life, no less ; for e'en 
in the swift passing 
rage thereof, he be- 
thought him of a 
wrestling trick well- 
nigh forgot in 's 
mind that might 
avail him at this 
pinch. Now, by this 
trick it was that he 
tripped up and over- 
threw his adversary, 
who, falling right 
heavily undermost upon the stony highway, did 
perforce somewhat loosen that fell grip ; and so 
it came to pass that Master Godkyn did make 
out at last to draw his knife, and then, as Jack 
o' the Feather started up again (like any fierce 
beast that 's brought to its last bay), why, then 
Vol. XVII.— 15. 

did Master Godkyn, for defending of his own life, 
stab him to the very heart so that he fell back 
an' died. 

So that was the end of that encounter. And 
all the neighbors said 't was no harm, but the 
rather a safe riddance o' mischief. And the dead 




body was given o'er to two of his kin, who did 
hap to come a-seeking him, and bore it back 
with them that way they came — nor did any 
man at that time call Master Godkyn to account 
for the same; only it seemeth to me always a 
fearsome thing to have man's blood on one's 




hands; neither was I anywise astonished at 
Simon's taking of the news when my father told 
it him. Was 't not his natural bom father, in 
sooth, flesh o' his flesh, blood o' his blood — de- 
spite of opposing misbehavior ? So it seemed as 
naught strange to me, as to the rest, that he hid 
himself away from sight of all, that day of hear- 
ing it, and for many days afterward had few 
words to speak to anybody. 

Well, well ! a right wonderful thing is nature, 
truly, and it taketh its own way despite of law 
and gospel and all contrary custom. Now, 
whether 't was the kilUng o' his father at that 
time, or whether the natural turn o' his mind to 
work darksomely upon itself, that did bring 
round such change in Simon, God knoweth 1 
but a change there was, for certain. He had 
ne'er been given to chatter overmuch, but 't was 
fairly as one tongue-tied he did now appear. 
As for the daily tasks, them did he do as afore- 
time, only in a sullen and grievous way, like to 
any driven slave; yet he sported no more at all, 
the rather choosing that time to himself for lone- 
somely walking abroad or brooding in some 
corner apart. Alackaday ! The poor lad ! my 
heart doth ache for him now. 'T was a strange 
case to be so situate betwixt one's natural race 
and kindred and such as were bounden enemies 
(and that past control of will) 'gainst them and 
theirs forever. Aye, aye; for all I was but a 
child then, and too little to sense aright the ins 
and outs thereof, it hath come to me since, I 
trow; an' small wonder 't is that the blackness 
of his eyes i' those days was as night without 
moon or star. 

Now, as to his own Indian race and nation, he 
had ne'er aforetime been curious in asking of 
questions, for all ever keenly a-listening to aught 
about them spoken. Neither did he inquire 
anything by word of mouth in these days 
whereof I tell, only he would be now always 
secretly spelling o'er in my father's books what 
was there writ tlown concerning the same, by 
Captain John Smith and others. Also many 's 
the time I did see him pick up an Indian arrow- 
head from the ground (for there were many 
thereabout scattered) and so stand gazing upon 
it, goodness knoweth how long by the clock I as 
thinking strange thoughts inside of him, may- 
hap, and clean forgetting all else in this world. 

Also, would he oft be walking solitarily and spy- 
ing 'mongst some two or three ancient ruined 
wigwams left long empty i' the wood hard by ; 
yet, I promise you, if our lads durst ever any- 
wise plague him concerning this so strange be- 
havior he was as tow to fire. So it passed, day 
in and out, weeks and months one after t' other, 
till the summer season o' that year was gone 
and autumn did come round. 

Now, concerning the very dreadful thing that 
then befell in Virginia, '.t was even as a thunder- 
bolt out of a fair even sky, with not the merest 
little small cloud for a warning aforetime. Nay, 
whoever would in reason have foredreamt it or 
supposed it as anywise possible, e'en of that most 
subtle, secret, and murtherous Indian people, 
after so long peace and friendly commingling 
together ! Surely never in this world was so 
cruel and barbarous assault so unprovoken ; for 
as to the killing of Jack o' the Feather, which 
same mishap, 't was afterward told, had been 
made a handle of by the King Opechancanough 
in stirring up of wrath 'gainst the English — as 
to that, but little store did the red people truly 
set by him, I do reckon, nor was any white man 
but the one (being Master Godkyn himself) con- 
cerned in that business. Neither could those 
Indians anywise justly complain how the whites 
had them in a manner dispossest, seeing that 
themselves had willingly consented thereto. 
Was 't they, or their forefathers, that did 'stablish 
boundaries, dig foundations, or make any proper 
decent settlements ? Nay, not so ; nor doth 
he set overmuch value on God's earth, I 'm 
thinking, who will sell the same to first-comer 
for a string o' beads or gaudy garment. A full 
ten year and more had peace continued, with 
kindness and good neighboring on both sides. 
And many of the Indians had removed 'way oflf 
to northward into the great woods on York 
River, but )-et a manv more were still tarrying 
amongst us, aye, not a few in fair houses builded 
for them, English fashion, by the settlers. More- 
over, not a few, again, had been taken in, even as 
Simon, by the whites as children or dear favored 
servants ; and thus, lo and behold ! did it come 
to pass that these vipers for the most part, being 
warmed and filled, did in very natural poisonous 
malice strike the hand that fed them, or the 
rather as under-sappers and miners of the walls 




that sheltered them seek to fetch all down — 
e'en tho' to their own crushing destruction — by 
the fell blow of this bloody vengeance. So was 
the foul plot laid in secret for that massacre, the 
dreadfulest thing that did ever hap in all Vir- 
ginia, and such as I pray God will never be 
again — and of it, as I said before, was no 
littlest warning given. There be sometimes 
signs an' signals in nature foretelling such ca- 
lamity, as have oftentimes been proven. Yea, 
a-many a one have I myself taken note of for 
lesser trouble than that. Howsoever, for all 
our dairy-wench, Dolly Shaw, would be telhng 
afterward about a death-watch ticking in her 
ear nine nights a-running, and a bloody red 
sunrise on the Friday mom next afore that 
woful Christmas day — why, it was all too late, 
as my mother said, for any such talk then. 

And it came to pass, one even in December 
month, that I did follow Simon on one of his 
lonesome goings unto those old crumbling wig- 
wams i' the woods, whereof I have told. 'T was 
Httle note he had taken of me an' my plays 
for many a long day, sure enough, but I was 
a- wearying of mine own company that time, with 
Francis an' Dick gone a-hunting and my mother 
and all the maids too busy o'er house matters to 
speak me even a word. So running after Simon 
(afar off, yet ever keeping him in sight) I did go 
along into the dark, thick forest ; yet when he 
reached that place I hardly durst fetch up unto 
him, but stopped and hid me behind a little 
cedar bush hard by the path to screw up my 
courage. And behold ! whiles I was standing 
there a-peeping thro', what did I see but a very 
tall and fierce-appearing Indian man come out 
o' the nighest wigwam and fall a-talking with 

So there stood they, face to face; and there 
stood 1 — a-looking frightedly — 'most ready to 
run back that way I 'd come, only I durst not, 
any more than go on. Ne'er a word that they 
said could I hear, but I saw that the tall Indian 
spake as 't were earnestly, and with right fierce, 
uncouth gestures did enforce the same. Also I 
saw that, at the first of it, Simon did shake head 
an' turn away — as who mayhap doth say, "No, 
no, no ! " to somewhat or other and will scarce 
hearken thereto. Whereupon the man, waxing 
still more vehement, stamped upon the ground 

and pointed fiercely with 's long cruel-shapen 
fingers, this way, that, an' t' other — till presenUy 
I, making sure that he pointed once straight at 
me, fell down for very terror where I stood. So 
I lay a-quaking. And after a while (goodness 
knoweth how long ! but it did seem monstrous 
long to me) came Simon himself, a-running 
back, — yet heavily and stumbling as one half- 
blind, — and so espied me there. 

Then he stood as one amazed, looking first 
at me, then back o'er his shoulder fearsomely ; 
but I perceived that the strange Indian had 
turned away, making off swiftly into the wood. 
And Simon cried out to me, " Gillian ! Gillian ! 
didst thou hear what he said ? Didst hear ? " 
And I said truly, nay ; but that I saw the man. 
Whereupon I fell a-crying for very fear of I 
knew not what. And I said, " Oh, Simon ! 
what hast thou to do with the dreadful dark 
man ? Oh, prythee take me home, Simon, lest 
he should come again!" For truly I was 
frighted 'most to death at the very thought o' 
that, and I held him tight, a-weeping. But he 
cried out loud, vehemently, " No ! no I he will 
not come. He shall not hurt thee ! He shall 
not ! he shall not ! They shall ne'er hurt thee 
in this world, my little sister Gilhan ! " 

So with that he comforted me, saying those 
same words o'er and o'er again, " Gilhan ! Gil- 
lian ! my little sister, Gillian ! " And so drying 
my tears right kindly, as ni}' brother might, he 
did carry me home (when that I had ceased to 
weep) afore him in his arms. But he straightly 
charged me to tell nobody that which I had seen ; 
and I, knowing naught of the harm thereof, did 
promise to keep it secret. 

Now, that was nigh a week before Christmas, 
which same was the secretly appointed time. 
Never before had his mood been so black, I 
trow, e'en at worst. 'T was as if an ill disease 
had him fast, for truly the flesh wasted off" his 
bones from one day to next, and scarce a mor- 
sel of victual would he be eating. I do think 
that e'en my mother had more pitied than 
blamed him that while, but for his darksome 
scowls and downcast shunning o' the looks of us 
all. But as it was, in sooth, she cried, " He 
surely hath a devil ! Alackaday ! " quoth she, 
" that such an one, so possest in evil, did ever 
come into this house ! " Aye, even m\' father 



turned 'gainst him then, for saith he, " Is this 
how he doth repay my kindness to him, hfe-long ! 
'T is an ill-conditioned lad," quoth he, " an' my 
wife hath been wiser than I, all along, in this 
matter. Let none either chide or coax, but all 
leave him alone in his foul sulking humor till 
I find place for him otherwhere than in my 

So by that command did all abide. In sooth, 
I do reckon, I was the only one of all i' the 
house that did anywise yearn to the contrary. 
But I durst not bespeak Simon a word, and thus 
was he left to his own thoughts an' devices till 
the very day came round. 

I mind well that Christmas eve, an' for the 
matter o' that there be few a-living in this Vir- 
ginia, from then till now, who have forgot the 
same, I do reck. Such a baking and brewing, 
such roasting and boiling, such a garnishing an' 
making ready for next day's feast, as there was 
with us, to be sure ' for howsoever times might 
pinch in common, my father and mother needs 
must be making shift to keep Christmas holi- 
day i' the good old English fashion of their 
young days. I mind how we had a brave pasty 
that day for dinner, in foretaste o' the morrow, 
and when we sat down at table, at about one 
o' the clock, all were there a'ready to eat but 
Simon. Whereupon my father saith, " Where 
is Master Doleful Dumps, I pray ? " And my 
mother cried, " Dear heart, I do neither know 
nor care 1 " But Dolly Shaw, who stood behind 
her chair, spake up, saWng, " He is in the top 
loft o' the house, where he hath e'en been well- 
nigh all day, a-sulking." Then Dickon would 
be asking (for he had e'er a rare sweet humor, 
had our Dick), '• Shall I run tell him o' the 
pasty ? " Howsoever, the master made answer. 
No. " Let him wait till he be hungry," quoth 
he, " for I warrant empty stomach needs no 
coaxing. He will be high in place tho' low in 
spirit, it doth seem. Fetch him not down." 

So then all did go on to eat without more ado ; 
but, for mine own part, the victual seemed to 
go against me that day. 

Now, when that the meal was o'er, some went 
one way, some another, about their several mat- 
ters; yet I could do naught in pleasure for think- 
ing of Simon, 'way up yonder, so lonesome and 
without cheer. In faith, I was alwavs a loving 

little lass, an' tender-true to them that had 
showed me kindness ; nor could I then deck my 
doll in holiday fashion, nor look on at the maids 
i' the kitchen, nor sport with my tame deer, nor 
anywise content me with this trouble on my 
mind. Wherefore, as hour after hour did pass, 
I bethought me how thirsty he must be by that 
time. 'T was not of hunger I would be think- 
ing, for truly he seemed to have forgot the feel 
o' that in those days ; but all must surely drink 
to live. 'T was a green Christmas, that (and 
such as old folk say maketh a fat graveyard), 
and mighty warm for the season ; and I had 
noted well, at time of breakfast that morn, how 
Simon, eating no single mouthful, drank scarce 
one cup o' milk. Moreover, I also bethought 
me how folk would oft be talking of peace an' 
good will at Christmas-tide, even as the Bible 
telleth that angels sang unto those shepherds 
a-listening on the hill-top ; yet, in sooth, that 
saying did then appear but an idle mock to me, 
and no peace in mine heart at all, with Simon 
left out a-cold. And so I said within myself, 
" 'T is surely no harm nor naughty disobedience, 
nor will my father 'count it any such, if I carry 
him a drink." Then I took from the mantel- 
shelf mine own silver cup, that my grandmother 
Griffin had sent unto me for a christening gift, 
all the way from England, and fetched it brim- 
ming full o' fresh fair water from the spring, 
unseen by anybody. And I went with it in my 
two hands so softly (for fear of spilling) up the 
big stair an' the little steep stair into the great 
loft room. 

Now, 't was the first time that I did ever go 
alone, of mine own accord, into that room, for 
it had ever seemed to me a strange and awe- 
some place, mayhap resembling some such as 
we hear tell of in old enchanted houses or the 
like. Not that our house had been builded 
long, or was aught like a grand big castle. 
Nay I But in this top room that spread all o'er 
the bigness o't, it was ever half dark as twilight, 
having only one litde small window for the 
whole, and the great beams o' the roof so heav- 
ily sloping down, with cobwebs hanging there- 
from. Then a-many strange things were there 
stored away for safe-keeping that no place might 
be found for i' the house below, such as the 
skins of divers beasts, tanned with the fur on, 






as they had been killed from time to time, and 
hanged up for some-day use ; or weapons of 
warfare, as swords, pikes, bludgeons, and so on, 
laid by 'gainst troublous times. Also, was there 
a great bedstead that my mother would be 
keeping for the fitting of a guest-chamber after- 
while, with the tall carven posts bewrapt in white 
linen an' looking like any four ghosts i' their 
shrouds; with ancient storage-chests, broken 
tables, chairs, and what not of relics from the 
Old World, mingled together disorderly with 
trophies of the New. 

Now, at first I saw nothing at all of Simon, 
and 'gan to think he was there no longer, when 
presently I did espy him. There was he, sure 
enough, in a far dim corner, a-sitting dolefully, 
as 't were, all huddled up on one o' the big chests. 
Only, his face and hands 1 could not see, for they 
were hid in a wolfskin there hanging from a 
beam o'erhead, even as a child doth cling and 
hide face in his mother's skirt, ma3hap — as I 
bethought me then and afterward. So I waited 
a litde space, but yet he did not look up nor sdr ; 
and then I went softly 'cross the floor, till being 
come nigh I did hold up the cup an' say, " Simon, 
I have fetched thee a drink ! " Then he let go 
of the wolfskin and looked up, a-shuddering all 
o'er his body and appearing, mayhap, like one 
on a sudden half waken from a very dark, horrid 
dream, whereby he is still holden an' distrest, 
not knowing false from true. Yet never a word 
he spake ; only stared so strangely at me as I 
stood. Whereupon I said again, — for all a bit 
quaking at the woful blackness o' his gaze, — 
" Art thou not thirsty, Simon ? Dost thou not 
know 't is Christmas-tide ? An' wilt thou not 
drink this fair water in mine own silver cup — 
for peace an' good will ? " 

Still he looked at me in a wild way, and all 
round the room, shaking like as if I had struck 
him with those words. Yet did he not take the 
water ; and all o' the instant, e'en as I so stood 
reaching it out unto him — lo ! he gave a very 
dreadful sharp cry, like somewhat had broke 
within him, and flung him face down on the 
floor betwi.xt us. 

Now, at that I stood frighted and trembling, 
till the water was spilled and the cup nigh 
fell from my hand. And naught durst I say, or 
could, but " Simon I Simon! " o'er and o'er again. 

.\nd to that he made no answer, only so a-lying 
i' the dust did strike on the floor with his hand — 
most dreadfully a-weeping and moaning, for 
some space ; till presently he, looking up, said 
unto me, " Call the master 1 " 

Then I went down, as fast as I might for legs 
a-trembling underneath me, and called my father, 
who did come up hastily and wondering at that 
summons. .\lso my mother came a-running 
behind, and the maids from their cookery, and 
the lads from cleaning of their guns i' the hall — 
all in haste and amazedly to see what was toward 
now. And when my father was come into the 
room (for those others did but listen on the 
stair) there was Simon, a-standing straight up, 
\et shaking as who doth face death. 

Then, 'fore ever my father might ask e'en. 
How 's this ? he cried out loud, saying, " There 
is yet time ! There is yet time ! Strike me dead 
when I have told it," crieth he, " but listen to me 
first ! " Then saith he on, " They have whetted 
their knives. They have sharpened their toma- 
hawks — for blood, blood, blood, this night! 
Opechancanough, the king, hath planned it — 
all the red men have sworn together. This 
night by darkfall will the kiUing begin all o'er 
Virginia — the killing o' the white people ! " 

And he, throwing himself down on 's knees 
afore my father, said in a wild way, " Master I 
Master ! They did promise me not to slay thee, 
or Gillian, or Dick. I did vow at first to tell, 
'less they promised me that. Yet have I seen it 
'fore mine eyes, day an' night — the blood and 
the killing — and the crying was in mine ears. 
Then Gillian came with the water — and now I 
prythee strike me dead, for I am false to both 
sides ! I am neither white nor red — an' not 
anywise worth to live ! " 

Now, that hearing, my mother and the maids 
cried out for fear, " God ha' mercy ! What 
will become of us ! " and there came a white- 
ness even o'er my father's face, for 't was a fear- 
some dreadful thing to think of, an' the sun nigh 
going down — as from the little window we 
might see. Howsoever, he laid not his hand 
on the lad, but, after that he had bidden the 
woman take heart o' grace, he said unto him, 
'• Up, boy, an' get thee down with me. Thou 
hast been bad enow, God knoweth ; — but 't is 
our part to save, an' not to kill, this night. I 




wll give thee chance a plenty, by St. George ! 
to prove thee yet worthy hving." 

'T was well we had good horses and strong — 
aye, an' well-fed — in our stable, for 't was both 
fast and far they needs must go that even. 
Good twenty miles were we from Jamestown, 
as the crow flieth ; eighteen miles the way lay 
to Wyanoke on one hand, nineteen or so was it 
to Falling Creek on t' other — through wood 
and swamp, with scarce road or track at all. As 
for my father, he must needs stay for our defense 
at home ; but on the three fleetest horses the 
three lads did go to warn and save such as 
might be. I mind how my mother wept over 
an' kissed Francis and Dickon as 't were death- 
parting to see them go — and sooth, poor soull 
I reckon she guessed full well how 't would be 
with them both, if they made not good speed ere 
sundown. But unto Simon 't was only my father 
that said good-bye, when he started the James- 
town way, on wild Blackamoor a-riding. " Now, 
if thou wouldst show human good inside thee," 
saith he, " I charge thee ride thy best." And 
Simon's face was as any stone set when he heard 
that word and started forth. 

Well, well ! 't is over an' done, bless Heaven ! 
this many a year agone, and may we never 
see the like of such a Christmas e'er again in 
Virginia, I do pray ! Good speed the three 
lads made in their several ways. 'T was Simon 
that did first win to the end o' his, for all it was 
the longest. So was Jamestown saved, and so 
likewise did those two other settlements 'scape 
from fire and bloody slaughter. I promise you, 
those murtherous yelling knaves that came 
'gainst our house that night did find my father 
ready with warmer welcome than they looked 
for. Yet alas and alas for them who had no 
such a warning as ours ! and alas for all Virginia 
that bitter, cruel night ! Right bloodily the white 
people wrought vengeance for 't in aftertime. 
Aye, aye ; 't was said they did hunt the Indians 
like wild beasts, in some parts, with bloodhounds 

fetched o'er from England a purpose for the busi- 
ness ; yet it brought not the dead ones to life 
again, so killed in sudden horrid massacre. At 
Warrasqueake, an' Flower de Hundred, and 
Martin's Brandon, and Westover — nay, where 
not elsewhere, i' faith, save the three places that 
our three lads did save ! All o'er the land, to 
tell truth, was foul murther done ; with hundreds 
o' dead corpses that were live and warm at sun- 
down left a-cold ere daybreak, and that unhu- 
manly hacked to bits in a manner not befitting 
civil ears to hear tell of I trow the Christmas 
viands were but funeral meats that woful time, 
an' Christmas hymns of cheer all turned to 
dirges. Yea, lads an' lasses here a-listening, ye 
may e'en thank God on bended knees this night 
for that these days be not like them agone ! 

Now as to Totapotamoi, or Simon Peter, as we 
always called him, we never saw that lad more, 
nor heard to any certainty what did become 
o' him. My father found the horse Blackamoor 
safe enough in James City next morn, but 'mongst 
all the townsfolk none might know how it had 
gone with the rider when his message was told. 
And whether he slew himself in dark despairing 
mood ; or was slain by the Indians in wrath for 
his betrayal of their wickedness ; or whether 
he doth still live with them, his natural kin and 
race, in the great woods behind the mountains 
(as was long aftertime rumored credibly to be 
the way o't), God knoweth, not I ; but it hath 
always pleased me to think him still a-living, an' 
that some day 'fore I died I might set eyes on 
him again. 

'T was many a long day ere my heart would 
give o'er aching at the thought o' him, for all 
the folk would oft be a-telling me that time and 
after, with tears and kisses, that wdien God him- 
self did put into my head to fetch the Indian lad 
that water in my silver cup, 't was even (in the 
saving o' precious lives) as the Bible saith con- 
cerning them that so a-doing will not lose their 
goodly reward. 


:^inn^ nm^rf*- , -— - ■•*■* 

M. ^ 

' Out JrptH tlie dark, mystey^ous North, 
li'ith all its glatnour, ez<ery night 
Tingling ivith unforgotten dreams, 
A nd every day Jlood-fnll of light." 



By Harriet Prescott Spofford. 

How weary the ice-river grew 

In those dark months of winter night, 

And, poised upon his lofty cliff, 

Longed, longed, for other worlds and flight. 

What use was all his mighty mold, 
With none to wonder and admire 

The light and color that he held. 
The moonstone gleam, the opal fire ! 

In vain the mother glacier showed 
Pale altars answering with cold rites 

The flashes of eternal stars, 

The lances of the northern lights ; 

A band of sunbeams came that way, 

Tempted, and touched, and lured him 
on, — 

Wild dreams of suns and southern skies, — 
A wrench, a plunge, and he was gone. 

With swift embrace the billows swelled 
To meet him, leaping twice and thrice 

In thunder, ere they led him forth, 
King of a world of floating ice. 

Down, down, by viewless currents drawn, 
His huge mass underneath the sea. 

His lofty tops enskyed, he moved 
Like some vast fleet in majesty, — 

Out from the dark, mysterious North, 

With all its glamour, every night 
Tingling with unforgotten dreams. 

And every day flood-full of Hght. 

The white bear slumbered in his caves ; 

The sunbeams played about his tips; 
Down, down he bore to summer seas 

And crashed his way through sinking ships. 

And drowning sailors saw on high 
Those icy walls where surges tossed, 

Descended out of heaven, a pile 
Of jeweled splendor fired in frost. 
Vol. XVII.— i6. 129 

Lapis and turquois pierced with light 
To sapphire, emerald hollows paled 

To beryl, topaz burning clear 
In flames of chrysolite, he sailed. 

Down, down to equatorial seas 

Still slowly drifting, — ah, how sweet 

These soft caresses of the tide 
Far in the depths about his feet ! 

How tenderly this morning gleam 

Saluted all his shining spires. 
That far away the voyager saw 

Tipped with the blaze of ruby fires ! 

How ardently through warm south winds 
The stresses of the noontide beat. 

Till brooks burst forth far up his sides. 
Dissolving in a fervent heat. 

Now plumed with streaming smoke he went, 

Now but a cloud of amethyst. 
The ghost of glory, weird and white. 

Now wrapt within a world of mist. 

The sweet and treacherous currents still 
Around his weakening bases whirled, 

The great throat of the hurricane 

Tremendous blasts against him hurled. 

Into blue air he crept ; and now 

Those sunbeams armed with javelins 
A hostile legion, fierce and fain. 

And all his awful beauty stormed. 

Ah, for that dim dark home once more. 
Those lances of the northern lights ! 

Then his tops bent them to their fall. 

The \\-ide seas rose and drowned his heights. 

And, but a hulk of crumbling ice. 
Within the deep he found his grave, 

Stranded upon a hidden key. 

And washed to nothing by a wave. 

(A A'orse Tale Freely Retold." ) 

By Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. 

'HERE was once a cler- 
gyman who lived some- 
where in the interior 
mountain valleys of 
Norway. . He had five 
children, all of whom 
were dear to him ; but 
there was one among 
them who was nearer 
to his heart than all 
the rest ; and that was 
a little girl, five years 
old, named Alvilda. It 
may have been because she was the youngest 
of the five ; and the youngest, especially if it 
is a girl, is always likely to be the father's 
pet ; or it may have been because she was a 
very sweet and lovable child who drew all 
hearts toward her as the sun draws the flow- 
ers. When her mother took her to church on 
Sunday morning, she slipped like a sunbeam 
among the somber congregation, and all faces 
brightened and a softer look stole into the eyes 
of old and young, when she passed by. In her 
quaint litUe poke-bonnet and her old-fashioned 
gown, and with her chubby little hands folded 
over her mother's h}'mn-book, she did, indeed, 
look so bewitching that it seemed a hardship 
not to stop and kiss her. "Bless the child," 

said the matrons, with heartfelt unction, when 
her bright smile beamed upon them. " Bless 
her dear little heart," ejaculated the young girls 
admiringly, as they knelt down in the road to 
pat Alvilda, to kiss her, or only to touch her 
in passing. 

When Alvilda's fifth birthday came it hap- 
pened to be right in the middle of the berry 
season ; and it was determined to celebrate it 
by a berrying party to which a dozen children 
of the neighborhood were invited. Fritz, Al- 
vilda's fourteen-year-old brother, whom she 
abjectly admired, magnanimously undertook the 
duty of sending out the invitations ; and he con- 
sulted his own sovereign fancy in inviting those 
whom he liked and leaving out those who had 
had the misfortune to incur his displeasure. It 
was found when all the children gathered in 
front of the parsonage, about nine o'clock in the 
morning, that it was indeed Fritz's party rather 
than Alvilda's. But Alvilda, who always thought 
that whatever Fritz did was well done, was 
perfectly content. She liked big boys, she said, 
because they were not half the trouble that 
little girls were. First, there was her brother 
Charles, twelve years old, who was the proud 
possessor of a drum which had been presented 
to him at Christmas ; the judge's Albert, thirteen 
years old, who was, to be sure, a great tease, and 

* This story, or rather the principal incident in it, I heard as a child, and have an impression that it is found 
in one of the Norwegian school-readers. I do not remember who is its author, if I ever knew ; but it is known to 
every Norwegian child, and is a kind of classic of the Norse nursery. H. H. B. 



I". I 

inclined to run off with Fritz on all sorts of mys- 
terious errands ; and there was the lawyer's Fred- 
erick, who never spoke to girls in public for 
fear of being thought frivolous. Of girls there 
were but two : Sophy, Alvilda's fifteen-year-old 
sister, who was almost grown up, and carried 
a novel in her pocket which she read at odd 
moments in the garden, in the kitchen, and, most 
of all, in the woods ; and Albert's sister, Inge- 
borg, who had so many delightful secrets which 
she would never share with anybody except her 
bosom friend Sophy. 

Fritz, who had provided himself with a tin 
trumpet, marshaled his forces in the yard, and, 
having aiTanged them in rank and file like sol- 
diers, gave the command, " Forward, march! " 

The girls followed as best they could ; the 
two elder ones leading Alvilda by the hand be- 
tween them. The father, who was reluctant to 
send her into the woods, fearing that she might 
become overtired, charged them not to leave her 
for a moment, and to see that she had an oppor- 
tunity to rest whene^■er she wished, all of which 
Sophy and Ingeborg promised. 

The weather was glorious : the sun was just 
warm enough to be agreeable, and the light 
clouds which sailed over the blue vault of the 
sky seemed to be having a happy time of it. 
The woods which grew in the rugged glens on 
the slope of the mountain were filled with the 
fragrance of birch and pine and lilies of the val- 
ley ; and the brooks, swollen by the melting ice 
of the glaciers, danced gayly down through the 
ravines, with a constant, gurgling rush which fell 
pleasantly upon the ear. 

When the boys left the highway for the moun- 
tain-paths, they broke ranks, and each scrambled 
up over the rocks as best he could. It was in 
vain that Fritz blew his trumpet and Charles 
beat his drum. To climb the great moss-grown 
rocks was too inviring ; and to stand on the top 
of them and shout against the mountain wall, 
which gave such a splendid echo, was a delight 
which made the heart leap in one's bosom. 
Fritz himself was not proof against such temp- 
tations, and finding his commands ignored, he 
gracefully surrendered his dignity and joined 
with a will in the sports of the rest. There were 
. squirrels to be stoned, — not a very nice sport, I 
admit, — and later Fritz was ashamed of having 

engaged in it. But there was much of the 
savage about him when he found himself in 
the woods, and he made it a point to act out 
the character and suppress whatever gentle emo- 
tions may have stirred in his bosom. Happily, 
the squirrels were too nimble and alert for the 
boys, and sat chattering at them from the upper 
branches of the pines, where the stones, if they 
reached at all, went wildly amiss. They then 
found a toad, and would, I fear, have pitched it 
heavenward from the end of a board, if the girls 
with Alvilda had not caught up with them ; and 
the latter, in consideration of its being her birth- 
day, was gallantly permitted to save the con- 
demned miscreant. For these boys, whoever 
and whatever they were, were never themselves. 
They were by turns robbers, pirates, medieval 
knights, Norse vikings, everv'thing under the sun 
they could think of, except nice, respectable 
country boys, — sons, respectively, of a la-ivyer, a 
judge, and a clergyman. A toad, in their hands, 
became a captured merchant, or an enchanted 
princess, or a thief condemned to death, as the 
case might be. But it never by any possibihty 
remained a toad. 

When they had climbed for an hour, Alvilda 
began to grow tired ; and Fritz, seeing that there 
was no likeHhood of reaching the enchanted ter- 
ritory he had in view, without carrying her, un- 
dertook with the aid of his comrades to make 
a litter of soft pine branches which was quite 
comfortable to repose upon. The boys then 
took turns carrying Alvilda, addressing her all 
the while as the Princess Kunigunde, who was 
betrothed to the King of Andalusia, and was 
now being borne by her faithful knights to meet 
her royal adorer. Alvilda laughed heartily at 
their absurd deferential speeches ; and her clear 
voice rang through the woods, startling now a 
coveyof partridges which broke with a frightened 
hum through the underbrush, now a hare which 
scooted away with long leaps over the heather, 
now a wild duck which, with a great flapping of 
wings, darted away in a straight line over the 
water, leaving its young in the lurch among the 
sedges. But, although she found it ridiculous, 
Alvilda enjoyed immensely being a princess and 
having her devoted knights kiss her hand and 
bend their knees when they spoke to her. 

It was about eleven o'clock when the party 




reached Fritz's berrying-grounds, which he had 
discovered a few days ago, when on an expedi- 
tion with Albert in search of adventures. It was 
just then toward the end of the strawberry sea- 
son and the beginning of the blueberry season. 
The sweet wild strawberry, than which there is 
nothing more delicious under the sun, betrayed 
itself by its fragrance under the heather, and 
when the boys found an open patch, about the 
roots of a tree, where the berries grew in big 
bunches, they shouted aloud and danced an 
Indian war-dance from excess of joy, before 
beginning to fill their mouths, their pails, and 
their baskets. Fritz and Albert, who were the 
champion pickers, had soon filled the tin pails 
they had brought with them, and set to work 
with great dispatch to make baskets of birch - 
bark wherewith to carry off their surplus. There 
were the great blueberry fields still to be ravaged ; 
and it seemed a pity not to pick some of the 
fragrant sweet-brier, and lilies of the valley that 
grew so abundantly among the birches and 
alders. Sophy and Ingeborg went into ecstasy 
over the nodding clusters of pretty, bell-shaped 
flowers which, in Norway, grow wild in the 
woods, and they picked their aprons full, again 
and again, emptying them into one of Fritz's 
birch-bark baskets. Of sweet-brier, too, and 
the delicate little wood-stars there was no lack ; 
and in the open glades they found some belated 
violets with a shy little ghost of a fragrance that 
stole into one's nostrils as a kind thought steals 
into the heart. 

Fritz and his manly comrades protested, of 
course, against this " tomfoolery " with the flow- 
ers; but as some indulgence must be granted 
to the foibles of girls, they consented to assist 
in the undignified task. A big heap of varie- 
gated color — pink, white, blue, and green — 
was piled up under a large, wide-spreading 
pine, where Alvilda sat, like a fairy queen, glory- 
ing in her perishable treasures. It was then 
Fritz lost his patience, and demanded to know 
whether it was not time now to stop this non- 
sense and go in quest of something worth 
wearying one's limbs for. As he had brought 
fishing tackle and bait, he would propose a 
little fishing expedition on a tarn, close by, and 
if the girls did n't care to accompany him, 
he would go alone with his trusty friends. 

Robin Hood and the Gray Friar, and catch 
enough to provide luncheon for the whole 
army. This proposition was too tempting to be 
resisted, and presently all the boys scampered 
away through the underbrush, leaving the three 
girls under the pine tree. Sophy spread a shawl 
upon the ground for Alvilda to lie down upon ; 
and herself drew a favorite novel from her pocket, 
which she discussed in whispers with Ingeborg. 
There were, indeed, the most dehcious things in 
this book : dreadful, black-hearted villains, with 
black mustaches, who prowled about in all sorts 
of disguises and lay in wait for unsuspecting 
innocence ; splendid, high-spirited heroes, with 
blonde mustaches and nodding white plumes on 
tlieir helmets, who rescued guileless innocence 
from the wiles of the villains, and subsequently 
manied it — and no end of delightful things 
besides. Sophy soon lost all thought of her sis- 
ter during this absorbing discussion, and Alvilda, 
finding herself neglected, pouted a little and 
dozed away into a sweet sleep. 

In the mean while the boys were having great 
fun down on the tarn ; and being seized with a 
ravenous appetite as their usual hour for 
luncheon passed, they resolved to have a little 
impromptu feast all by themselves before re- 
turning to the girls. They had caught a dozen 
fine trout and no end of perch, and their mouths 
watered to test the flavor of the former on the 
spot. They accordingly built an improvised 
stove of flat stones, made a fire in it, split the 
fish, and broiled them over the fire. 

The trout in particular proved to have a superb 
flavor, and Fritz, as a generous and magnanimous 
freebooter, was dispensing the hospitality of the 
woods with a royal hand. He forgot all about his 
dear little sister in whose honor he was feasting, 
and he forgot, too, that he had promised to return 
in half an hour with his catch of fish. Sophy 
and Ingeborg, having exliausted the delights 
of the novel, began to grow hungr}', and -when an 
hour had passed, they became impatient and, at 
last, angry. They could hear the boys' shouts of 
laughter in the distance, and they began to sus- 
pect that the boys were lunching without them. 
Now and then the blare of Fritz's trumpet was 
vaguely audible, and the rumble of Charles's 

" I really think, Ingeborg," said Sophy, " that 


those wretched boys have forgotten all about 

" I never could understand why boys were 
created," observed Ingeborg. 

'• ^^'ell, anyway, I am hungry," ejaculated 

" And I am ravenous ! — that is, I am not 
averse to something to eat," echoed her friend. 

" Suppose we go and find those graceless 
scamps," suggested Sophy. 

" Very well ; but what shall we do with Al- 
vilda ? " 

Alvilda, — to be sure, — what were they to do 
with her ? Sophy felt a little pang of guilt as 
her eyes fell upon the sweet, chubby face of her 
sleeping sister. 

" She is sleeping so soundly. It would be a 
pity to waken her," she remarked doubtfully. 
" What do you say ? " 

" Why, nothing can happen to her here," 
said Ingeborg; "we shall only be gone fifteen 
minutes, you know, and then we shall be back 
with the boys." 

'• But suppose there were bears about here ; 
then it might be dangerous to leave her ! " 

" Yes, and suppose there were lions — and — 
crocodiles," laughed Ingeborg. 

This sally disposed of Sophy's scruples ; and 
having thrown a jacket over Alvilda's feet and 
kissed her on the cheek, she flung one arm 
about her friend's waist and wandered away 
with her in the direction from which the boys' 
laughter was heard. It was not difficult to 
find those young gentlemen, for they were en- 
gaged in a lively wrangle as to which was the 
rightful possessor of the surplus quantity of fish 
which they could not devour. Fritz main- 
tained that he, as the chieftain, had a just claim 
to the proceeds of the labor of his vassals and 
slaves, and the vassals and slaves loudly rebelled 
and declared that they would never submit to 
such injustice; whereupon the chieftain mag- 
nanimously declared that he would renounce 
his rights and surrender the booty to be divided 
by lot among his men-at-arms. It was at this 
interesting point that the girls appeared upon 
the scene, and the gallant freebooters dropped 
their quarrel and undertook, somewhat shame- 
facedly, to wait upon their fair guests. And as 
the fair guests had rather unfashionable appe- 

tites, after their long fast and vigorous exercise, 
the fifteen minutes became half an hour and 
the half hour began to round itself out to a 
whole hour, before their consciences smote them 
and they thought of Alvilda who was asleep 
under the big pine tree. 

iVnd now let us see what befell little Alvilda. 
She slept quietly for about twenty minutes after 
her sister left her; and she would have slept 
longer if something very extraordinary had not 
happened. She was dreaming that the big 
mastiff. Hector, at home in the parsonage, was 
insisting upon kissing her, and she was struggling 
to get away from his cold, wet nose, but could 
not. A strange, wild odor was filling the air, 
and it penetrated into Alvilda's dream and 
made her toss uneasily. There was Hector 
again, with his cold, wet nose, and he was blow- 
ing his warm breath into her face. She tried 
to scold him, but not a sound could she pro- 
duce. In her annoyance she struck out with 
her hand and hit something warm and furr)-. 
But here consciousness broke through the filmy 
webs of slumber ; she opened her eyes wide 
and raised herself on her elbow. There stood 
Hector, indeed, and stared straight into her 
eyes. But how big he was ! And how his ears 
had shrunk and his fur grown ! Alvilda rubbed 
her eyes to make sure that she was awake. She 
stared once more with a dim apprehension, and 
saw, — yes, there could be no doubt of it, — she 
saw that it was not Hector. It was an enor- 
mous, big brown beast, that stood snuffing at 
her; it was, perhaps, even a dangerous beast, 
which might take it into its head to hurt her. 
It was, — yes, now she was quite sure of it, — it 
was a big brown bear ! 

The little girl's first impulse was to cry out 
for help. But it was so strangely still about her. 
Where were her brothers and sister, Fritz and 
his freebooters, Sophy and her friend Ingeborg? 
Itcouldnotbe possible that they had left heralone 
here in the forest. She threw frightened glances 
about her; but wherever she looked she saw 
nothing but the long, solemn colonnades of 
brown pine trunks. And there, right in front of 
her, stood the bear, staring at her with his small 
black eyes. It occurred to her, even amid 
her fright, that she must try to make friends 
with this bear, in which case, perhaps, he might 




consent not to eat her. She knew from her fairy- 
tales that there were good bears and bad bears, 
and she devoutly hoped that her new acquain- 
tance might prove to belong to the order of good 
bears. So, with a quaking heart and a voice that 
shook, she arose, and putting her hand on the 
bear's neck, she exclaimed with pathetic friend- 
hness : " I know you very well, Mr. Bear, but 
you don't know me. I know you from my 
picture-book. You are the good bear who 
carried the Princess on your back, away from 
the Trold's castle." 

The bear was apparently not displeased to 
know that he had made so favorable an impres- 
sion, though he wished to make it plain that he 
could n't be bamboozled by flattery. For he 
shook his great shaggy head and gave a low, 
good-natured grumble. And just at that mo- 
ment he caught sight of the big basket of straw- 
berries that stood under the tree. And turning 
toward it, he slowly lifted his right fore paw, 
and, putting it straight into the basket, deliber- 
ately upset it. 

" Why, Bear, what have you been doing ? " 
cried Alvilda, half forgetting her fear. "Why, 
don't you know, those are Fritz's berries? — and 
he will be so angry when he gets back. For 
Fritz, you know, is quite high-tempered. Now, 
if you '11 eat my berries, you may have them, 
and welcome; but, dear Mr. Bear, do let Fritz's 

It may be surmised that the bear was not 
greatly moved by this argument. He calmly 
went on eating Fritz's berries, which were scat- 
tered all over the ground, and grumbled now 
and then contentedly, as if to say that he found 
the flavor of the berries excellent. He paid no 
attention whatever to Alvilda's own little basket, 
which she had placed invitingly before his 
nose ; but, when he had finished Fritz's berries, 
he selected the next biggest basket and upset 
tliat in the same deliberate fashion in which he 
had upturned the first one. 

" Why, now, Mr. Bear, I don't think you are 
good, after all," said Alvilda, when she saw her 
friend make havoc among the berrj'-baskets. 
" Don't you know you '11 get stomach-ache, if you 
eat so many berries? — and then you '11 have to 
go to bed in your den and take nasty medicine." 

But, seeing that the bear was no more affected 

by self-interest than he was by regard for other 
people's property, Alvilda, in her zeal, put her 
arms about his neck and tried to drag him away. 
She found, however, that she was no match for 
Bruin in strength, and therefore sorrowfully made 
up her mind to abandon him to his own devices. 
" Now, Bear," she said, seating herself again un- 
der the tree, and quite forgetting that she had 
once been frightened, "if you '11 behave your- 
self, I am going to make you a pretty wreath of 
flowers. Then, Mr. Bear, won't you look hand- 
some when you get home to your family ? " 

And, delighted at this vision of the bear return- 
ing to his astonished family decorated with a 
wreath, she clapped her hands, emptied a basket 
of wild flowers in her lap, and began to tie them 
together. Lilies of the valley, she feared. Bruin 
would scarcely appreciate ; but brier-roses, vio- 
lets, and columbines, she thought, would not be 
beyond his taste; and adding here and there a 
sprig of whortleberries and of flowering heather 
to give solidity to her wreath, she tied it securely 
about the bear's neck and laughed aloud with 
joy at his appearance. Bruin had obviously a 
notion that this was a kindly act, for he suddenly 
rose up on his hind legs and with a pleased 
grumble made an attempt to look at himself. 

"Oh, my dear Bruin," cried Alvilda, "you 
look perfectly lovely ! Your family won't recog- 
nize you when they see you again." 

The bear lifted up his head and, as his eyes 
met Alvilda's, there was a gleam in them of mild 
astonishment, and, as the little girl imagined, of 
gratitude. She laughed and talked on merrily 
for some minutes, while her friend sat down on 
his haunches and continued to gaze at her with 
the same stolid wonder. But then, suddenly, 
while Alvilda was making another wreath for 
Bruin to take home to his wife, the blare of 
a trumpet re-echoed through the woods, and 
laughing voices were heard approaching. The 
bear pricked up his ears, sniffed the air suspi- 
ciously, and waddled slowly away between the 
tree trunks. 

- " Why, no. Bear," Alvilda cried after him ; 
" why don't you stay and meet Fritz and Sophy 
and the judge's Albert ? " 

But the bear, instead of returning, broke into 
a gentle trot, and she heard the dry branches 
creak beneath his tread as he vanished in the 


' JD 

underbrush. And just as she lost the last glimpse 
of him, Fritz and Sophy and the whole party of 
children came rushing up to her, excusing them- 
selves for their absence, calling her all manner 
of pet names, and saying that they had hoped 
she had not been frightened. " Oh, no, not at 
all," answered Alvilda ; " I have had such a 
nice bear here, who has kept me compan}'. But 
I am so sorry he has eaten up all your berries." 

The children thought at first that she must be 
joking; but seeing all the baskets upset, and 
smelling the strong, wild odor that was yet linger- 
ing in the air, they turned pale and stood gazing 
at each other in speechless fright. But Sophy 
burst into tears, hugged her little sister to her 
bosom, and cried : 

" Oh, how can you ever forgive me, Alvilda ? 
It is all my fault ! I promised Papa not to 
leave you." 

It was of no use that Alvilda kept repeating : 
" But, Sophy, he was not a bad bear. He was 
a nice bear, and he did n't hurt me at all." 

There could be no more berrying after that. 
The girls were in haste to be gone, and the val- 
iant freebooters had no desire to detain them. 
They picked up their belongings as fast as they 
could and hurried down through the forest, each 
taking his turn, as before, in carrying Alvilda. 
But they were neither knights nor princesses nor 
freebooters any more. They were only fright- 
ened boys and girls. 

When they arri\ed at the parsonage about 
five o'clock in the afternoon, they were too tired, 
breathless, and demoralized to care much what 
became of them. Sophy took upon herself to 
tell her father what had happened. She was 
prepared for the worst, and in her remorse would 
have accepted cheerfully any punishment. But 
imagine her astonishment when her father ut- 
tered no word of reproach but folded Alvilda 
in his arms and thanked God that he had his 
little girl once more safe and sound. 

Now, if my story had ended here, nobody 
would have been astonished ; but the most as- 
tonishing part of it is what remains to be told. 
Six months after Alvilda's encounter with the 

good bear, when a foot of snow covered the 
ground, two of the parson's lumbermen, who 
were famous hunters, returned from a week's so- 
journ in the woods. Fritz, Albert, and Alvilda, 
bundled up to their ears in scarfs and overcoats, 
were sliding down the hill behind the stables, 
when they saw the two lumbermen, sitting 
astride of some big, dark object, coasting down 
toward them. " Hurrah ! " cried Fritz, waving 
his cap to them, " there are Nils and Thorsten ! 
And they have killed something too." 

Nils and Thorsten, returning the greeting of 
the young master, slackened their speed and 
stopped beside the children. It was a big, brown 
he-bear they had on their sled — a regular 
monster; and they were not a little proud of 
having killed him. His tongue was hanging 
out of his mouth, and there was a small hole in 
his breast from which the blood was trickling 
down on the snow. 

"Je-miny," exclaimed Fritz admiringly, plun- 
ging his fist into the beast's dense fur, " ain't he 
a stunner ? But what is this ? — I declare if he 
has n't a wreath of withered flowers about his 
neck ! " 

Alvilda, who had timidly drawn near, started 
forward at these words and, letting her sled go, 
stared at the dead animal. 

" Why, it is my bear ! " she cried, bursting into 
tears, " it is my dear, good bear ! " 

And before any one could prevent her, she 
had flung her arms about the bear's neck and 
buried her face in his fur; and there she lay 
weeping as if her heart would break. 

" Oh, they have been bad to you," she sobbed ; 
" and you were so good to me ; and you have 
worn my wreath all this time." 

The two hunters pulled the sled down into 
the court-yard, Alvilda still weeping over her 
dead playmate. And when her father came 
out and hfted her up in his arms, she yet re- 
mained inconsolable, lamenting the fate of her 
good bear. But from the animal's neck the 
pastor cut the withered wreath, and it hangs 
now on the wall in Alvilda's room as a memento 
of her ursine friend and the love she bore him. 

^^"^'4 :»& o.l)f^- 

^HEN Independence 
was declared, in 1776, 
and the United States 
of America appeared 
among the powers of 
the earth, the con- 
tinent beyond the 
Alleghanies was one 
unbroken wilderness ; 
and the buffaloes, the 
first animals to vanish 
when the wilderness 
is settled, roved up to 
the crests of the mountains which mark the 
western boundaries of Pennsylvania, Virginia, 
and the Carolinas. They were plentiful in 
what are now the States of Ohio, Kentucky, 
and Tennessee. But by the beginning of the 
present century they had been driven beyond 
the Mississippi; and for the next eighty years 
they formed one of the most distinctive and 
characteristic features of existence on the great 
plains. Their numbers were countless — incred- 
ible. In vast herds of hundreds of thousands of 
individuals, they roamed from the Saskatchewan 
to the Rio Grande and westward to the Rocky 
Mountains. They furnished all the means of 
livelihood to the tribes of Horse Indians, and 
to the curious population of French Metis, or 
Half-breeds, on the Red River, as well as those 
dauntless and archtypical wanderers, the white 
hunters and trappers. Their numbers slowly 
diminished ; but the decrease was very gradual 
until after the Civil War. They were not de- 
stro)'ed by the settlers, but by the railways and 
by the skin hunters. 

After the ending of the Ci\'il War, the work of 
constructing transcontinental railway lines was 

pushed forward with the utmost vigor. These 
supplied cheap and indispensable, but hitherto 
wholly lacking, means of transportation to the 
hunters ; and at the same time the demand for 
buffalo robes and hides became very great, 
while the enormous numbers of the beasts, and 
the comparative ease with which they were 
slaughtered, attracted throngs of adventurers. 
The result was such a slaughter of big game as 
the world had never before seen ; never before 
were so many large animals of one species de- 
stroyed in so short a time. Several million buf- 
faloes were slain. In fifteen years from the 
time the destruction fairly began, the great 
herds were exterminated. In all probability 
there are not now, all told, a thousand head of 
•\vild buffaloes on the American continent ; and 
no herd of a hundred individuals has been in 
existence since 1884. 

The first great break followed the building of 
the Union Pacific Railway. All the buffaloes 
of the middle region were then destroyed, and 
the others were then spht into two vast sets of 
herds, the northern and the southern. The 
latter were destroyed first, about 1878; the 
former not until 1883. My own experience 
with buffaloes was obtained in the latter )'ear, 
among small bands and scattered individuals, 
near my ranch on the Little Missouri ; I have 
related it elsewhere. But two of my relatives 
were more fortunate, and took part in the chase 
of these lordly beasts when the herds still dark- 
ened the prairie as far as the eye could see. 

During the first two months of 1877, my 
brother Elliott, then a lad not seventeen years 
old, made a buffalo-hunt toward the edge of 
the Staked Plains in northern Texas. He was 
thus in at the death of the southern herds, for 



all, save a few scattering bands, were destroyed 
within two years of this time. 
- My brother was with my cousin, John Roose- 
velt, and they went out on the range with six 
other adventurers — a German- American, a 
Scotchman who had been in the Confederate 
cavalry and afterward in Maximilian's Mexican 
body-guard, and four Irishmen. It was a party 
of just such young men as frequently drift to the 
frontier. All were short of cash, and all were 
hardy, vigorous fellows eager for excitement 
and adventure. My brother was much the 
youngest of the party, and the least experi- 
enced ; but he was well-grown, strong and 
healthy, and very fond of boxing, wrestling, run- 
ning, riding, and shooting ; moreover, he had 
served an apprenticeship in hunting deer and 
turkeys. Their mess-kit, ammunition, bedding, 
and provisions were carried in two prairie 
wagons, each drawn by four horses. In addirion 
to the teams they had six saddle-animals — all 
of them shaggy, unkempt mustangs. Three or 
four dogs, setters and half-bred greyhounds, 
trotted along behind the wagons. Each man 
took his turn for two days as teamster and cook ; 
and there were always two with the wagons, 
or camp, as the case might be, while the other 
six were off hunting, usually in couples. The 
expedition was undertaken partly for sport and 
parti)- with the hope of profit ; for, after pur- 
chasing the horses and wagons, none of the 
party had any money left, and they were forced 
to rely upon selling skins and hides and, when 
near the forts, meat. 

They started on January 2d, and shaped their 
course for the head-waters of the Salt Fork of 
the Brazos, the center of abundance for the 
great buffalo herds. During the first few days 
they were in the outskirts of the settled country, 
and shot only small game — quail and prairie 
fowl ; then they began to kill turkey, deer, and 
antelope. These they " swapped " for flour and 
feed, at the ranches or squalid, straggling fron- 
tier towns. On several occasions the hunters 
were lost, spending the night out in the open, or 
sleeping at a ranch if one was found. Both 
towns and ranches were filled with rough cus- 
tomers; all of my brother's companions were 
muscular, hot-headed fellows ; and as a con- 
sequence they were involved in several savage 
Vol. XVII.— 17. 

" free fights," in which, fortunately, nobody was 
seriously hurt. My brother kept a very brief 
diary, the entries being fairly startling from their 
conciseness. A number of times, the mention 
of their arrival, either at a halting-place, a little 
village, or a rival buffalo-camp is followed by 
the laconic remark, " big fight," or " big row " ; 
but once they evidently concluded discretion to 
be the better part of valor, the entry for January 
20th being, " On the road — passed through Bel- 
knap — too lively, so kept on to the Brazos — 
very late." The buffalo-camps in particular 
were very jealous of one another, each party 
regarding itself as having exclusive right to the 
range it was the first to find ; and on several 
occasions this feeling came near involving my 
brother and his companions in serious trouble. 

While slowly driving the heavy wagons to 
the hunting-grounds they suffered the usual 
hardships of plains travel. The weather, as in 
most Texas winters, alternated between the ex- 
tremes of heat and cold. There had been little 
rain ; in consequence water was scarce. Twice 
they were forced to cross ^vild, barren wastes, 
where the pools had dried up, and they suffered 
terribly from thirst. On the first occasion the 
horses were in good condition, and they traveled 
steadily, with only occasional short halts, for over 
thirty-six hours, by which time they were across 
the waterless country. The journal reads : "Jan- 
uar)' 29th. — Big hunt — no water and we left 
Quinn's blockhouse this morning 3 a. m. — 
on the go all night — hot. January 28th. — No 
water — hot — at seven we struck water and by 
eight Stinking Creek — grand 'hurrah.'" On 
the second occasion, the horses were weak and 
traveled slowly, so the party went forty-eight 
hours without drinking. " February 19th. — Pulled 
on twenty-one miles — trail bad — freezing night, 
no water, and wolves after our fresh meat. 20th. 
— Made nineteen miles over prairie ; again only 
mud, no water, freezing hard — frightful thirst. 
2ist. — Thirty miles to Clear Fork, fresh water." 
These entries were hurriedly jotted down at the 
time, by a boy who deemed it unmanly to make 
any especial note of hardship or suffering ; but 
every plainsman will understand the real agony 
implied in working hard for two nights, one day, 
and portions of two others, w ithout water, even 
in cool weather. During the last few miles the 




Staggering horses were only just able to drag 
the lightly loaded wagon, — for they had but 
one with them at the time, — while the men 
plodded along in sullen silence, their mouths 
so parched that they could hardly utter a word. 
My own hunting and ranching were done in the 
North where there is more water ; so I have 
never had a similar experience. Once I took 
a team in thirty-six hours across a country 
where there was no water; but by good luck it 
rained heavily in the night, so that the horses 
had plenty of wet grass, and I caught the rain 
in my slicker, and so had enough water for my- 
self. Personally, I have but once been as long 
as twenty-six hours without water. 

The party pitched their permanent camp in a 
caiion of the Brazos known as Canon Blanco. 
The last few days of their journey they traveled 
beside the river through a veritable hunter's 
paradise. The drought had forced all the ani- 
mals to come to the larger watercourses, and 
the country was literally swarming with game. 
Every day, and all day long, the wagons trav- 
eled through the herds of antelopes that grazed 
on every side, while, whenever they approached 
the caiion brink, bands of deer started from 
the timber that fringed the river's course ; often, 
even the deer wandered out on the prairie with 
the antelopes. Nor was the game shy ; for the 
hunters, both red and white, followed only the 
buffaloes until the huge, shaggy herds were de- 
stroyed, and the smaller beasts were in conse- 
quence but little molested. 

Once my brother shot five antelopes from a 
single stand, when the party were short of fresh 
venison ; he was out of sight and to leeward, 
and the antelopes seemed confused rather than 
alarmed at the rifle-reports and the fall of their 
companions. As was to be expected where game 
was so plenty, wolves and coyotes also abounded. 
At night they surrounded the camp, wailing and 
howling in a kind of shrieking chorus through- 
out the hours of darkness ; one night they came 
up so close that the frightened horses had to be 
hobbled and guarded. On another occasion a 
large wolf actually crept into camp, where he 
was seized by the dogs, and the yelling, writh- 
ing knot of combatants rolled over one of the 
sleepers ; finally, the long-toothed prowler man- 
aged to shake himself loose, and vanished in the 

gloom. One evening they were almost as much 
startled by a visit of a different kind. I'hey were 
just finishing supper when an Indian stalked 
suddenly and silently out of the surrounding 
darkness, squatted down in the circle of fire- 
light, remarked gravely, " Me Tonk," and began 
helping himself from the stew. He belonged to 
the friendly tribe of Tonkaways, so his hosts 
speedily recovered their equanimity ; as for him, 
he had never lost his, and he sat eating by the 
fire until there was literally nothing left to eat. 
The panic caused by his appearance was natural ; 
for at that time the Comanches were a scourge 
to the buffalo-hunters, ambushing them and 
raiding their camps ; and several bloody fights 
had taken place. 

Their camp had been pitched near a deep 
pool or water-hole. On both sides the bluffs 
rose like walls, and where they had crumbled 
and lost their sheerness, the vast buffalo herds, 
passing and repassing for countless genera- 
tions, had worn furrowed trails so deep that 
the backs of the beasts were but little above 
the surrounding soil. In the bottom, and in 
places along the crests of the cliffs that hemmed 
in the cahon-like valley, there were groves of 
tangled trees, tenanted by great flocks of wild 
turkeys. Once my brother made two really 
remarkable shots at a pair of these great birds. 
It was at dusk, and they were flying directly 
overhead from one cliff' to the other. He had 
in his hand a thirty-eight-caliber Ballard rifle, 
and, as the gobblers winged their way heavily 
by, he brought them both down with two suc- 
cessive bullets. This was of course mainly a 
piece of mere luck ; but it meant good shooting, 
too. The Ballard was a very accurate, handy 
little weapon ; it belonged to me, and was the 
first rifle I ever owned or used. With it I had 
once killed a deer, the only specimen of large 
game I had then shot ; and I presented the 
rifle to my brother when he went to Texas. In 
our happy ignorance we deemed it quite good 
enough for buffalo or anything else ; but out on 
the plains my brother soon found himself forced 
to procure a heavier and more deadly weapon. 

When camp was pitched the horses were 
turned loose to graze and refresh themselves 
after their trying journey, during which they 
had lost flesh wofully. They were watched 

iSSg ] 



and tended by the two men who were always 
left in camp, and, save on rare occasions, were 
only used to haul in the buffalo-hides. The 
camp-guards for the time being acted as cooks ; 
and, though coffee and flour both ran short 
and finally gave out, fresh meat of every kind 
was abundant. The camp was never without 
buffalo-beef, deer and antelope venison, wild 
turkeys, prairie-chickens, quails, ducks, and rab- 
bits. The birds were simply " potted," as occa- 
sion required ; when the quarry was deer or 
antelope, the hunters took the dogs with them 
to run down the wounded animals. But almost 
the entire attention of the hunters was given 
to the buffalo. After an evening spent in loung- 
ing round the camp-fire, and a sound night's 
sleep, wrapped in robes and blankets, they 
w-ould get up before daybreak, snatch a hurried 
breakfast, and start off in couples through the 
chilly dawn. The great beasts were very plenti- 
ful ; in the first day's hunt, twenty were slain ; 
but the herds were restless and e\"er on the 
move. Sometimes they would be seen right by 
the camp, and again it would need an all-day's 
tramp to find them. There was no difliculty in 
spying them — the chief trouble with forest 
game ; for on the prairie a buffalo makes no 
effort to hide, and its black, shaggy bulk looms 
up as far as the eye can see. Sometimes, they 
were found in small parties of three or four 
individuals, sometimes in bands of about two 
hundred, and again in great herds of many 
thousand ; and solitary old bulls, expelled from 
the herds, were common If on broken land, 
among hills and ravines, there was not much 
difficulty in approaching from the leeward ; for, 
though the sense of smell in the buffalo is very 
acute, they do not see w'ell at a distance through 
their overhanging frontlets of coarse and matted 
hair. If, as was generally the case, they were 
out on the open, rolling prairie, the stalking was 
far more difficult. Every hollow, every earth 
hummock and sagebush had to be used as 
cover. The hunter wriggled through the grass 
flat on his face, pushing himself along for per- 
haps a quarter of a mile by his toes and fingers, 
heedless of the spiny cactus. When near enough 
to the huge, unconscious quarry the hunter 
began firing, still keeping himself carefully con- 
cealed. ]( the smoke was blown awav by the 

wind, and if the buffaloes caught no glimpse of 
the assailant, they w-ould often stand motionless 
and stupid until many of their number had been 
slain ; the hunter being careful not to fire too 
high, aiming just behind the shoulder, about a 
third of the way up the body, that his bullet might 
go through the lungs. Sometimes, even after 
they saw the man, they would act as if confused 
and panic-struck, huddling up together and 
staring at the smoke puft's — but generally they 
were oft" at a lumbering gallop as soon as they 
had an idea of the point of danger. When 
once started, they ran for many miles before 
halting, and their pursuit on foot was extremely 

One morning my cousin and brother had 
been left in camp as guards. They were sitting, 
idly warming themselves in the first sunbeams, 
when their attention was sharply drawn to four 
buffaloes who were coming to the pool to drink. 
The beasts came down a game trail, a deep vut 
in the bluft", fronting where they were sitting, and 
they did not dare stir for fear of being discov- 
ered. The buffaloes walked into the pool, and, 
after drinking their fill, stood for some time with 
the water running out of their mouths, idly lash- 
ing their sides with their short tails, enjoying the 
bright warmth of the early sunshine ; then, with 
much splashing and the gurgling of soft mud, 
they left the pool and clambered up the bluff 
with unwieldy agilit)'. As soon as they turned, 
my brother and cousin ran for their rifles ; but 
before they got back the buftaloes had crossed 
the bluff crest. Climbing after them, the two 
hunters found, when they reached the sum- 
mit, that their game, instead of halting, had 
struck straight oft' across the prairie at a slow- 
lope, doubdess intending to rejoin the herd they 
had left. After a moment's consultation, the 
men went in pursuit, excitement overcoming 
their knowledge that they ought not, by rights, 
to leave the camp. They struck a steady trot, 
following the animals by sight until they passed 
over a knoll, and then trailing them. Where 
the grass was long, as it was for the first four or 
five miles, this was a work of no difliculty, and 
thev did not break their gait, only glancing now 
and then at the trail. As the sun rose and the 
day became warm, their breathing grew quicker; 
and the sweat rolled oft' their faces as thev ran 




across the rough prairie sward, u\) and down the 
long inclines, now and then shifting their heavy 
rifles from one shoulder to the other. But they 
were in good training, and they did not have 
to halt. At last they reached stretches of bare 


L UD Il.Al.M.'.U, .\Mj 

THbV Dill 

ground, sun-baked and grassles.s, where the trail 
grew dim ; and here they had to go very slowly, 
carefully e.xaniining the faint dents and marks 
made in the soil by the heavy hoofs, and unrav- 
eling the trail from the mass of old foot-marks. 
It was tedious work, but it enabled them to 
completely recover their breath by the time that 
they again struck the grass land ; and but a 
few hundred yards from its edge, in a slight hol- 
low, they saw the four buffaloes just entering a 
herd of fifty or si.xty that were scattered out 
grazing. The herd paid no attention to the new- 
comers, and these immediately began to feed 
greedily. After a whispered consultation, the 
two hunters crept back, and made a long circle 
that brought them well to leeward of the herd, 
in line with a slight rise in the ground. They 
then crawled up to this rise and. peering through 
the tufts of tall, rank grass, saw the unconscious 
.beasts a hundred and twenty-five or fifty yards 
away. They fired together, each mortally wound- 
ing his animal, and then, rushing in as the herd 
halted in confusion, and following them as they 
ran, impeded bv numbers, hurry, and panic, 
they eventually got three more. 

On another occasion, the same two hunters 
nearly met with a frightful death, being over- 

taken by a vast herd of stampeded buffaloes. All 
animals that go in herds are subject to these 
instantaneous attacks of uncontrollable terror, 
under the influence of which they become per- 
fectly mad, and rush headlong in dense masses 
on any form of death. 
Horses, and more 
especially cattle, often 
suffer from stampedes ; 
it is a danger against 
which the cowboys 
are compelled to be 
|ierpetually on guard. 
A band of stampeded 
horses, sweeping in 
mad terror up a val- 
ley, will dash against 
a rock or tree with 
such violence as to 
leave several dead ani- 
mals at its base, while 
the survivors race on 
■' ""'^ '" "■'"-'■' without halting ; they 

will overturn and destroy tents and wagons, and 
a man on foot caught in the rush has but a small 
chance for his life. A buffalo stampede is much 
worse — or rather was much worse, in the old 
days — because of the great weight and im- 
mense numbers of the beasts, who, in a fury 
of heedless terror, plunged over cliffs and into 
rivers, and bore down whatever was in tlieir 
path. On the occasion in question, my brother 
and cousin were on their way homeward. They 
were just mounting one of the long, low swells 
into which the prairie was broken when they 
heard a low, muttering, rumbling noise, like 
far-off thunder. It grew steadily louder, and, 
not knowing what it meant, they hurried for- 
ward to the top of the rise. .\s they reached it, 
they stopped short in terror and amazement, for 
before them the whole jjrairie was black with 
madly rushing buffaloes. 

Afterward they learned that another couple 
of hunters, four or five miles off, had fired into 
and stampeded a large herd. This herd, in its 
rush, gathered others, all thundering along to- 
gether in uncontrollable and increasing panic. 
The surprised hunters were far away from 
any broken ground or other place of refuge ; 
while the vast herd of huge, plunging, maddened 




beasts was charging straight down on them not 
a quarter of a rtule distant. Down they came ! — 
thousands upon thousands, their front extending 
a mile in breadth, while the earth shook beneath 
their thunderous gallop, and as they came 
closer, their shaggy frontlets loomed dimly 
through the columns of dust thrown up from 
the drj' soil. The two hunters knew that their 
only hope for life was to split the herd, which, 
though it had so broad a front, was not ver)- 
deep. If they failed they would ine^dtably be 
trampled to death. 

Waiting until the beasts were in close range, 
they opened a rapid fire from their heavy 
breech-loading rifles, yelling at the top of their 
voices. For a moment the result seemed doubt- 
fill. The line thundered steadily down on them ; 

from their foes in front, strove desperately to 
edge away from the dangerous neighborhood; 
the shouts and shots were redoubled ; the hunt- 
ers were almost choked by the cloud of dust 
through which they could see the stream of dark 
huge bodies passing within rifle-length on either 
side ; and in a moment the peril was over, and 
the two men were left alone on the plain, 
unharmed, though with their nerves terribly 
shaken. The herd careered on toward the 
horizon, save five indi\iduals who had been 
killed or disabled by the shots. 

On another occasion, when my brother was 
out with one of his Irish friends, they fired at 
a small herd containing an old bull ; the bull 
charged the smoke, and the whole herd followed 
him. Probably they were simply stampeded, 


then it swayed violently, as two or three of the 
brutes immediately in their front fell beneath the 
bullets, while the neighbors made \-iolent efforts 
to press off sideways. Then a narrow wedge- 
shaped rift appeared in the line, and widened 
as it came up closer, and the buffaloes, shrinking 


and had no hostile intention ; at any rate, after 
the death of their leader, they rushed by without 
doing any damage. 

But buffaloes sometimes charged with the 
utmost determination, and were then dangerous 
antagonists. My cousin, a ver\- hardy and 





resolute hunter, had a narrow escape from a 
wounded cow which he followed up a steep 
bluff or sand clifi". Just as he reached the sum- 
mit, he was charged, and was only saved by the 
sudden appearance of his dog, which distracted 


the cow's attention. He thus escaped with onlv 
a tumble and a few bruises. 

My brother also came in for a charge, while 
killing the biggest bull that was slain bv anv of 

the party. He was out alone, and saw a small 
herd of cows and calves at some distance, with 
a huge bull among them, towering above them 
like a giant. There was 
no break in the ground, 
nor any tree nor bush 
near them, but by mak- 
ing a half-circle, my 
brother managed to 
creep up against the 
\\ind behind a slight 
roll in the prairie sur- 
face, until he was ■within 
seventy-five yards of the 
grazing and unconsci- 
ous beasts. There were 
some cows and calves 
between him and the 
bull, and he had to wait 
some moments before 
they shifted position as 
the herd grazed onward 
and gave him a fair shot; 
in the interval they had 
moved so far forward that he was in plain 
view. His first bullet struck just behind the 
shoulder ; the herd started and looked around, 
but the bull merelv lifted his head and took a 




aj^^■^JKvuj.^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^/^ P^:^Tz;^J:-^ -J 



Step forward, his tail curled up over his back. 
The next bullet likewise struck fair, nearly in 
the same place, telling with a loud " pack ! " 
against the thick hide, and making the dust fly 
up from the matted hair. Instantly the great 
bull wheeled and charged in headlong anger, 
while the herd fled in the opposite direction. 
On the bare prairie, with no spot of refuge, it 
was useless to try to escape, and the hunter, 
with reloaded rifle, waited until the bull w'as 
not far off", then drew up his weapon and fired. 
Either he was nervous, or the bull at the moment 
bounded over some obstacle, for the ball went 
a little wild ; nevertheless, by good luck, it broke 
a fore leg, and the great beast came crashing to 
the earth, and was slain before it could struggle 
to its feet. 

Two days after this event, a war 
party of Comanches swept down 
along the river. They "jumped" 

a neighboring camp, killing one man and wound- 
ing two more, and at the same time ran off all 
but three of the horses belonging to our eight 
adventurers. With the remaining three horses 
and one wagon they set out homeward. The 
march was hard and tedious; they lost their 
way and were in jeo])ardy from quicksands 
and cloudbursts ; they suffered from thirst and 
cold, their shoes gave out and their feet were 
lamed by cactus spines. At last they reached 
Fort Sniffin in safety, and great was their raven- 
ous rejoicing when they procured some bread 
— for during the final fortnight of the hunt they 
had been without flour or vegetables of any kind, 
or even coftee, and had subsisted on fresh meat 
" straight." Nevertheless, it was a very healthy, 
as well as a very pleasant and exciting experi- 
ence ; and I doubt if any of those who took 
part in it will ever forget their great buffalo-hunt 
on the Brazos. 





•^^//■'_ BY NORA PERRY 'Xxdl'S'^ 

^-yfff[ m 

Chapter I. 

" A STEPMOTHER ? How liomd I " 

" Horrid ! — I should think so." 

'■ What is it that is horrid, girls ? " asked an- 
other girl, who, in passing, had caught only the 
last sentence. 

" Why, about May Bartlett, you know." 

" No, I don't know ; what is it ? " 

" She has a stepmother." 

'^ No ! " 

" Yes, yes," cried the first two speakers, — the 
Macy sisters, — Joanna and Elsie. 

" But when, when did it happen, this step- 
mother business ? " exclaimed the girl to whom 
they were telling the news. " I saw May in 
vacation, and she did n't lisp a w^ord of it." 

" But you have n't seen her since you came 
back ? " ' 

" Well, no; as this is my first //<?/■/■;■ back, almost. 
But tell me when the stepmother was brought 
on the scene ? " 

" A week ago : that is, Mr. Bardett was mar- 

ried to her then ; but he has n't brought her 
home yet; they are traveling." 

" Who told you ? " 

" Mrs. Marks, the housekeeper. I went round 
yesterday to see if May was at home." 

" And you saw May ? " 

"No; she was n't expected until the late 
afternoon train." 

" And she did n't know anything about the 
stepmother until a week ago ? " 

"Two weeks ago; a week before the marriage." 

" Well, I call that downright cruel. If it was 
my father 1 " And Cathy Bond stamped a little 
foot on the floor with an emphasis that spoke 
unutterable things. Two or three more girls 
who had just entered the school-room came up 
at this demonstration with a " What 's the matter, 
Cathy ? " And the matter was told over again 
with a new chorus of " ohs " and " ahs " and 
'• poor Mays." There was only one disagreeing 
voice — a soft little voice that broke into the 
" ohs " and " ahs," saving : " Stepmothers are 
verv nice sometimes. I have a cousin — " 



" Nice!" cried Cathy, and then directly went 
off in a flow of wild talk, a string of stories all 
going to show that stepmothers were anything 
but nice. 

At the first hint of a pause, the little soft voice 
began again : 

" I have a cousin — " but Cathy had mounted 
her hobby-horse of prejudice, and flashed out: 

" Oh, bother your cousin, Susy Morris; I know 
two girls intiiitately, who have stepmothers, and 
they can't do anything, not anything, they want 
to do ! " 

"Who, the stepmothers?" asked Joanna 

" No ; the girls, of course," answered Cathy 
rather crossly ; " and they used to have every- 
thing, and do just exactly as they pleased. Oh, 
you need n't talk to me about stepmothers ; they 
interfere between the fathers and children, and 
are a meddling, selfish set." 

As Cathy paused to take breath, Susy promptly 
struck in with, " I have a cousin — " But a 
shout of laughter interrupted, and Joanna Macy 
repeated, with merry mockery," I have a cousin"; 
then, turning and clutching Susy in a swift em- 
brace, she cried out : 

" Oh, you dear, queer, funny little thing with 
your running chorus, ' I have a cousin.' But 
tell us about her ; come, Susy has the floor — 
Susy 's going to tell us about the cou.sin. If 
Cathy interrupts, we '11 put her out. Now,, 
begin — ' I have a cousin.' " 

Susy blushed a little, but without any sign of 
annoyance unhesitatingly took up the words, 
" I have a cousin," and went on with her 

It was a sweet little story of kindness and 
comfort and happiness brought into a lonely 
home to a lonely child, by a sweet, kind, good 

But it did not make the impression it ought 
to have made upon the girl listeners, for Cathy's 
stormy talk of injustice and cruelty had blown 
into their minds a tangle of wild thoughts, just 
as a storm in nature blows all the wild weeds 
and sticks and stones into a tangle of dust and 
dirt that confuses and blinds one. 

Susy, who appeared so slow and placid, had a 
keen perception of some things. Her mind was 
like a Httle clear lake through which she seemed 
Vol. XVII.— 18. 

to look and see the truth. Through this clear 
little lake she now looked and saw that not one 
of these girls, not even Joanna whom she spe- 
cially loved, received her story with much belief. 
It was not that they thought she was willfully 
telling what was not true, but they were saying 
to themselves : 

" Oh, that is only Susy's easy, pleasant way of 
taking people. Susy does n't understand." But 
Susy did understand more than they imagined, 
and it was out of this understanding that she 
started up suddenly with a quicker motion than 
was common with her, and in a quicker tone 
cried out : 

" My father says that prejudice makes people 
deaf and blind." She paused a second, gave a 
short sigh, and dropping into her ordinary man- 
ner, and in her little, soft, drawling voice, she 
added, " If 't would only make 'em dumb 't 
would be all right." 

The girls were used to Susy's wise speeches, 
spoken in that soft voice of hers, and with a curi- 
ous twist to the letter r, which she could n't pro- 
nounce without giving to it a half sound of w, 
and they generally laughed, not at the speeches 
alone, but at the quaint combination of the 
speeches and Susy together. As a matter of 
habit they laughed now, but Joanna had caught 
the spirit of the speech, and she followed the 
laugh by saying : 

" Susy is right ; prejudice does make us deaf 
and blind, and it is a pity we could n't be dumb 
too, instead of talking such stuff! What do 7ue 
know really about stepmothers ? " 

" We know what everybody has always said," 
struck in Cathy. 

" Everybody is always saying everything." 

" But there are the Longley girls — my two 
friends I told you of." 

" And there is Susy's cousin that 's the other 
side. I '11 set that against the Longlegs, or what- 
ever is their name." 

" Well, I sha'n't. I shall never beheve in step- 
mothers ; I know — " 

A quick "hush" from Joanna arrested Cathy's 
sentence. She looked up. They all looked up, 
and there was May Bardett, not three feet away ! 
How long had she been there ? How much had 
she heard ? Perhaps she had just come in and 
had heard nothing. But she was standing at her 




desk, and her books were unstrapped and set in 
order. She must have heard something in this 
time. Joanna could have stamped with vex- 
ation at herself, and at the others. Oh, why, 
why, had she — had they all — been so careless ? 
But something must be done. Somebody must 
go forward and speak as if nothing had hap- 
pened. Joanna started on this errand, but 
Cathy was before her, and in the next moment, 
flinging her arms about May, was saying in an 
impressive, pitying accent : 

" Oh, May, we have heard all about it, and 
we are so sorry." 

May Bartlett was a proud girl, who generally 
held her private aftairs in a good deal of reserve, 
but this sudden demonstration at this time was 
too much for her self-control, and she burst into 
tears. Joanna could have beaten Cathy. Why 
could n't she have greeted May as if nothing 
had happened ? But that was just like Cathy 
to make a scene. 

The girls came forward awkwardly after this, 
and there was a general uncomfortable time, 
until Susy suddenly burst out in her odd litde 

" Oh, May 's got a straight bang ! " 

The girls giggled, Joanna caught Susy in a 
little hug, and the tragic atmosphere was re- 

Chapter II. 

A WEEK, later. May Bartlett was standing at 
the parlor window waiting for her father and his 
new wife, her stepmother. 

"Why don't you go to the depot to meet 
them?" asked Mrs. Marks. 

May had colored up angrily at this question, 
and a hot rush of tears had blinded her eyes as 
she turned away without answering. But it was a 
natural question for Mrs. Marks to ask, for May 
had been in the habit of meeting her father at 
the pretty little suburban station almost every 
afternoon on his return from the city. " But 
meet t/tein at the depot! How could Mrs. 
Marks speak of such a thing," the girl thought 

Tick, tack, tick, tack, went the litrie cathedral 
clock on the mantel. In fifteen minutes the 
train would be in, and in five, ten minutes more 
the carriage would be at the door, and then — 

and then — the tears that May had tried to keep 
under control suddenly overflowed, as she im- 
agined the change that was coming. Eight 
weeks ago, when she had gone away with her 
Aunt Mary to the sea-shore to spend her vaca- 
tion. May had planned what she would do in 
the autumn. In the first place she would have 
a party — a garden-party, for September was a 
lovely month at Hillside, and her father had 
promised her a garden-party ever since they 
had taken possession of their new house there, 
three years ago. She would invite all the girls 
of her set at the Hillside seminary, and as many 
of her friends in town — and by "town" she 
meant Boston, which was only six miles away 
— as had returned from their summer jaunts. 
Then she would persuade her father to buy her 
a village wagon. She could drive very well, as 
he himself had said, and she could bring him 
from the station quite as well in a village wagon 
as in the shabby old phaeton which she \vas per- 
mitted to use, when Patrick was too busy to go 
with the dog-cart. Yes, a party and a dear little 
duck of a wagon like Marion Grant's, and then, 
and then, — but at this point of her recollection 
her tears flowed afresh, for of course all these 
pretty plans must go, with the coming of the new 
mother — no, the stepmother; she would never, 
never call her mother! Her mother ! — she looked 
up at the portrait that hung above the little clock 
— the portrait of a fair sweet-faced woman with 
pleasant eyes that seemed to follow you about 
with a laugh in them. She died five years ago, 
when May was nine years old, but May could 
almost fancy she heard her mother saying as 
those laughing eyes met her daughter's: 

" What 's the matter with the litde daughter 
now ? " 

A sob caught in the daughter's throat here, 
and she cried aloud, " Oh, Mamma, Mamma, 
it 's no small thing that 's the matter now, but 
a ver}', very great thing. It 's somebody com- 
ing to take your place — your place and mine. 
Mamma." But if May had a half fancy that 
the eyes would look different, would change 
their merry expression at this, she was mistaken. 
As the yellow afternoon sun sent a bright dan- 
cing ray across the canvas, the eyes seemed to 
dance with it, in the happiest possible way, and 
tick, tack, tick, tack, the litde clock sent its 



yellow pendulum back and forth in the sun- 
shine. From the portrait, May glanced at the 
clock-face. Why, why, why ! the fifteen min- 
utes had passed, and so absorbed had she been 
in her thoughts, she had not heard the locomo- 
tive whistle. How very odd. She ran out of 
the room, and out of the hall upon the piazza. 
The train must have arrived, and in five min- 
utes more she would hear the carriage. From 
end to end she paced slowly up and down. 
How sweet the honeysuckle smelled, and the 
late lilies were all red and gold bloom. Lean- 
ing over the railing she broke one from its stem 
and pinned it in her dress ; as she did so she 
could see the clock through the open window. 
Not only five, but ten minutes had gone. She 
stopped and listened. Was that the carriage ? 
No. Five minutes more. The train could n't 
have arrived. What luas the matter ? Tick, 
tack, tick, tack, another five minutes went by 
and Mrs. Marks came out on the piazza. 

" My dear, I never knew this train to be 
late," she said anxiously. Then May's endur- 
ance gave way, and catching her hat from the 
hall stand she ran down the steps, calling back 
as she went : 

" I 'm going to the depot, Mrs. Marks, to see 
if anything has been heard. I can't wait here." 

" That 's right, dearie ; you '11 feel better to 
go, but I would n't worry — there 's been some 
delay somewhere, that 's all." 

" Some delay somewhere ! " May -thought of 
the delay that had occurred on the Boston and 
Providence road the year before, when the Ros- 
lindale bridge had given way, and hundreds of 
people had gone down with it. Her heart 
seemed to beat up into her throat, to stop her 
voice, and almost her breath. She could not 
frame the words to ask a question when she en- 
tered the depot, but she heard some one say, 
" There 's been an accident." She lost the 
next sentence, and caught only the last words, 
" — but the track is clear now, and the train has 

Walking to the further end of the platform, 
away from all the people, poor May sat down 
upon a baggage-truck to watch and wait. As 
she sat there she imagined the worst that could 
have happened. Perhaps her father was badly 
hurt, perhaps he was killed, and she would 

never see him again; and at the very time, 
when he had been suffering, perhaps dying, she 
had been having hard thoughts of him, had 
blamed him for what he had done, and what he 
had not done — for marrying again, and for not 
telling her of his plans until the last moment. 
She grew hot, then cold, as she thought of the 
words she had said to Cathy Bond — of how 
she had joined her in calling him unkind, and 
even cruel. Oh, if only he came back alive, so 
that she could show him how she loved him ! If 
only he came back she would not do any of the 
disagreeable things she had declared to Cathy 
Bond that she would do. She would — yes, 
she would — even kiss her stepmother when she 
met her. She had said to Cathy only yester- 
day, " I shall not kiss her, and I shall be very 
stiff and cold to both of them." To I'oth of 
them! Perhaps, perhaps — 

In another moment May would have lost all 
control of herself and burst out crying, if the 
sound of a long shrill whistle had not roused 
her to the immediate present. As she heard 
it, she jumped to her feet and ran up the plat- 

Yes, there was the train rounding the curve. 
In a minute she would know — what ? She 
crowded her way through the throng of people 
to the front. Swifdy, then slackening in speed, 
the cars roll in and come to a full stop. There 
are faces at the windows, there are voices say- 
ing, " I am so glad to see you " ; but not the face, 
not the voice she is longing for. She turns sick, 
cold, and dizzy, and staggers backward with an 
attempt to get away out of this eager throng 
that seems so happy. Then it is that somebody 

" Why, here she is, now ! " 

She lifts her head, and there he is — her hand- 
some, young-looking father, sound and well and 
smiling down upon her. 

" O Papa, Papa ! I thought you were killed 
— the train was so late, and they said — they 

" My dear child ! There, there, don't — don't 
cry. It 's all right you see. Here, Margaret, 
here 's this litde girl has been frightened half out 
of her wits at the delay — thought I was killed." 

May made a great effort to be calm, but the 
reaction was so swift it was hard work, and her 



pale face and tremulous lips were expressive of 
her nervousness as she looked up to meet her 
stepmother's glance. It was not a smiling 
glance like her father's, but May found it easier 
to meet for that reason. She knew her father 
always dreaded what he called " a scene," and 
had always discouraged any outbreaks either of 
tears or excited laughter ; and with this knowl- 
edge she was perfectly well aware that her 
twitching lips and pallid face were annoying 
him at that moment. But this serious glance 
that met her, and the quiet remark, "I don't 
wonder that you were frightened at such a de- 
lay ; / should have been very much frightened 
in your place," gave May a litde time to re- 
cover herself, and then the quiet voice went on, 
asking no questions, but speaking of the causes 
of the delay, that did not, it seemed, involve 
much danger, being merely an accident of ob- 
struction by the breaking down of a freight-car, 
of which warning was duly given from station 
to stadon. 

" Oh, I thought it was something dreadful," 
May broke forth at this. "I heard some one 
say something about an accident, and I was too 
frightened to ask a question myself." 

" And so worked yourself up into a fever 
with your imagination as usual, my dear," her 
father responded, half laughing. 

" She did tlie most natural thing in the world 
for a girl. I think I should have done the same 
thing," the quiet voice here said, with an easy 
tone of bright decision. 

" Oh, you ! I dare say. I 've a pair of you, I 

May looked at her father in surprise. He 
looked back at her with a funny Kttle grimace. 

" Yes, May, she 's just such another goose as 
you are in some things." 

May caught the smile upon her stepmother's 
face. Her stepmother ! In the excitement she 
had for the moment forgotten the stepmother. 
She regarded her now for the first time with ob- 
serving eyes. What did she see ? 

A tall slender young woman, with brunette 
coloring, and an air of ease and elegance about 
her. May glanced across at her father. How 
happy he seemed, and how young he appeared 1 
But he must be a great deal older than this new 
wife — this "Margaret." He had gray hairs, 

and there was no gray in that dark coil and 
fluff" under the small stylish bonnet. May took 
in all these details and said to herself, " Why did 
she marry him, I wonder ? " Then a mischiev- 
ous little spirit whispered that her father was a 
rich man, and she remembered what Cathy Bond 
had said about girls marrying for money. Alas ! 
for May's good resolutions, as she sat waiting for 
the train a few minutes before. If her father 
only came back ! And here he was, full of life 
and strength, and she had forgotten already. 
If he only came back, she would show him how 
she loved him, she would even — kiss her step- 
mother when she met her ! But as the girl 
thought of this last duty which she had meant 
to perform, it suddenly came over her that she 
had really not been called upon to perform it — 
that nobody in fact, neither her father nor her 
stepmother, had seemed to expect it. Of course 
everything was to be accounted for by the ex- 
citement of the occasion, but, nevertheless, a 
feeling of chagrin sent a flush to May's cheek at 
the recollection, and then a swift sharp question 
stung her, " Was this the way she was to be for- 
gotten by them ? " 

Chapter III. 

" A GARDEN-party ? Why yes, so I did prom- 
ise you a garden-party some time. I remember, 
but it seems to me — it 's rather late in the year, 
is n't it?" 

" Oh, no ; not if I set it for next week. Hill- 
side is lovely in September." 

" Yes, but next week is the fourth week in 
September — pretty late in the month to count 
on the weather. Margaret," and Mr. Bardett's 
voice rose a little louder in tone as he called to 
his wife, who was coming down one of the gar- 
den walks to the piazza where he and May were 

" Yes," responded Margaret, looking up from 
the flowers she carried. 

" Don't you think the fourth week in Septem- 
ber is rather late for a garden-party ? " 

" Decidedly late. Why, I hope you are not 
thinking of giving a garden-party, are you ? " 

" I ? Oh, no ; it was May's idea. There, you 
see — you '11 have to wait until ne.xt year, my 
dear," turning to May. 




Margaret lifted her head quickly, and saw a 
rebellious expression on her stepdaughter's face. 
It was a still, cold expression, that she had seen 
several times before in the three days she had 
been at Hillside. Coming forward more rapidly, 
she said easily and pleasantly : 

" It is very nice of you to think of a garden- 
party for me, but it is rather late, you know." 

Mr. Bartlett had taken up his newspaper, and 
paid no heed to these words. May sat silent, 
her chin dropped against her breast, all kinds 
of mutinous little thoughts in her mind, tirst and 
foremost of which was, " She thinks everything 
is to be for her .f" 

Mrs. Bartlett meanwhile stood regarding the 
downbent face with a look of great perple.xity, 
and with a slight flush on her cheek. The flush 
deepened, as May suddenly jumped from her 
chair and, catching up her school-satchel, started 
off down the walk with a " Good-bye, Papa." 

Her father glanced over his paper with a look 
of surprise. It was not May's habit to go away 
like this, without a good-bye kiss. He was about 
to call her back, when he saw her join one of 
her school friends just outside the gate. In a 
few moments the matter slipped from his mind, 
in the absorbing interest of the political news he 
was reading. 

It was Cathy Bond whom May had joined. 
Cathy was full of a lively interest in the new 
stepmother. She had found May rather re- 
served in what she had said within the last three 
days, and was greatly desirous of discovering 
the "reason why," of seeing for herself what sort 
of a person the stepmother was, and " how things 
were going;" but her little plan of calling for 
May was foiled by May's joining her outside the 
gate. In a moment, however, she saw, with 
those sharp eyes of hers, that something was 
very much amiss, and in a sympathetic tone 
asked : 

" What is it, Maisie, what is the matter ? " 

" Matter ! " With a catch in her breath, May 
repeated the brief conversation about the garden- 
party. The reserve of the last few days had 
vanished. Her good resolutions had blown to 
the winds. But it was only to Cathy that she 
spoke directly. Whether Cathy would have had 
the strength to have been silent if May had asked 
her, it is impossible to tell. But May did not 

ask her, — perhaps in her resentment she did n't 
care, perhaps she did n't think ; at any rate Cathy 
did not keep silent, and by the afternoon recess 
all the girls knew the story of the garden-party 
as they had heard it from Cathy Bond. 

Even Joanna Macy was stirred to indignation 
by this story. 

" She must be conceited to think the party 
could only be for her. What had May to do 
with getting up a garden-party for her step- 
mother ? " 

Susy Morris, who heard the indignant tone of 
Joanna's voice, wanted to know What it meant. 

" Oh, it means," cried Joanna, " that Cathy 
was n't far wrong about the stepmother"; and 
then Joanna repeated the story, as she had 
heard it from Cathy, that May had asked her 
father that morning if she might have the garden- 
party he had promised her, and that her step- 
mother had interfered and said that, though she 
was much obliged to May for thinking of giving 
a garden-party for her, that it was decidedly too 
late for it, and that she hoped it would not be 
thought of any more ! " The idea," concluded 
Joanna, " of her taking it for granted that the 
party must be for her — that May, a girl of four- 
teen, would think of getting up any kind of a 
party for her ! I never heard anything so con- 
ceited. Well?" as Susy's small face began to 
wrinkle up with a puzzled frown, " say it out, 
Susy, whatever it is ! " 

" My cousin — " 

Joanna shouted with laughter. ' 

"Oh, Susy, that cousin of yours!" 

But Susy went on : " My cousin was n't but 
fifteen, and she asked her father to make a sail- 
ing party for Iier stepmother. Perhaps May's 
stepmother thought that May was just asking 
for the party in the same way, as a kind of 
welcome, you know. She might have misun- 
derstood, or she might not have heard the 
whole, — don't you see?" 

" No, I don't see. They were all on the 
piazza talking ; and May had distinctly asked 
her father if she might give to the school-girls 
the garden-party that he had promised that she 
might. Now, Miss Susy, what have )'ou to 
say ? " 

" Notliing, only it does seem queer, if all 
this was said na;ht out before the stepmother. 




that she should have thought the party was for 
her, and should have thanked May. When she 
did that, why did n't May tell her how it was 
— or why didn't Mr. Bardett ? " 

" Oh, Susy, you will make a first-class lawyer 
if you live to grow up," was Joanna's laughing 
reply to this. But, though Joanna laughed, 
Susy's words set her to thinking that perhaps 
there was a mistake somewhere, and suddenly 
she thought of something her mother had said 
to her once when she had repeated an unkind 
story to her : " My dear, a story twice told is 
two stories ; and three times told, the truth is 
pretty well lost sight of" 

But when Joanna tried to take this ground 
with the girls, she could get no hearing, for 
Cathy Bond was a power at the Hillside school, 
with her quick sympathies, and her quick, glib 
way of expressing them. To May, this quick, 
ghb way had always been attractive ; it was still 
more so now, when she found it ranged so 
warmly on her side. Yet if she had heard 
Cathy's repetition of her account of the garden- 
party conversation, I think she would have been 
a little startled, but she did not hear it, and so 
matters went on from bad to worse; that is, the 
story grew and grew, and one girl and another 
took up what they called poor May's cause, 
and looked, if they did not speak, their pit)', 
until May became such a center of interest that 
she could not but be affected by it, could not 
but feel that she had reason to be very un- 
happy. Yet, in spite of this feeling, there was 
n't so much outward indication of it as one 
might have expected. 

Joanna remarked upon this one day to Cathy, 
declaring that, for her part, she thought that 
May seemed to look very cheerful under the 

" Cheerful ! " exclaimed Cathy tragically. 
" Why she 's just wretched, but she 's keeping 
up ; you know they are having no end of giddy 
goings-on up there." 

" Up where ? " 

"Why, at the Bardetts'. Lots of people are 
calling, and it seems that Mrs. Bartlett has any 
quantity of friends and relatives in Boston, and 
they are driving out to see her and having five 
o'clock tea with her, and all that sort of thing." 

" And May is in it all ? " 

" Why, to be sure. It 's a trial to her, of course, 
and it 's as much as she can do to keep up." 

" A iria/ to her. Why is it a trial to her ? " 
asked Joanna, imitating Cathy's grown-up words 
and ways. 

Cathy flamed up. 

" You don't seem to have any feeling, Joanna. 
Don't you suppose she thinks of her own mother 
while these things are going on ? " 

This was too much for Joanna's keen common 
sense, and she laughed outright. 

" Things going on ! Calling, and drinking 
tea ! Oh, Cathy ! " 

" Well, but — but — it is n't just ordinary call- 
ing ; it 's like — like parties," answered Cathy, 
flushing and stammering. 

"And has n't Mr. Bartlett had whist-parties 
and dinner-parties many a time ? " 

" They were gentlemen's parties." 

"Well, did n't May's Aunt Mary — her 
mother's own sister — have parties when she 
was staying there, and," triumphantly, " has n't 
May herself had a birthday-party every year 
since her mother died ? " 

" Yes ; but that 's different. This is a stranger 
who comes to take her mother's place." 

" She 's a stranger to May ; but Mr. Bardett 
has married this stranger just as he married 
May's mother." 

" Yes, and I think it was horrid for him to 
do so." 

" Oh, Cathy, lots of people marry again — the 
nicest and best of people." 

" Well, I think it is perfectly dreadful, when 
there are children, to give them a strange woman 
in the place of their mother. It is just as selfish 
as it can be." 

" But, Cathy, there are good stepmothers as 
well as bad ones. Why, stepmothers are just 
like other people." 

" Yes, before they are stepmothers ; but when 
they step into own mothers' places, they — 
they — " 

As Cathy hesitated, Joanna laughingly broke 
in with, "They become wicked wolves, who are 
all ready to worry and devour their poor vic- 
tims ! " Cathy could not help joining a little in 
Joanna's laugh ; but she said, almost in the next 
breath : 

" Oh, you can make fun, Joanna, as much as 




you like, but you '11 never make 7ne believe in 
stepmothers ! " 

Just when Cathy was saying this, just when 
Joanna was wrinkling up her forehead and want- 
ing to say impatiently, " Oh, you little pig of 
prejudice ! " around the corner, where they stood 
talking, there suddenly appeared a big open car- 
riage, full of gayly dressed people. 

" There she is ! " whispered Cathy, pointing 
with a nod of her head to a lady who was smil- 
ingly speaking to the gentleman sitting next to 

Joanna craned her neck forward eagerly. 
This was her first glimpse of the stepmother. 

" Why, she 's a beauty ! " she cried out to 
Cathy ; " and she looks like a girl ! But 
where 's May, I wonder ? " 

" Oh, yes ; where 's May ? You see she 
is n't there. I suppose she was n't wanted — 
there was n't room for her," answered Cathy 

But presently round the corner they heard 
again a Hght roll of wheels on the smooth road, 
and there appeared another carriage. It was a 

litde yellow wagon, — a village wagon, — and in 
it were May Bartlett and a young girl about her 
own age. May was driving. She looked more 
than cheerful ; she looked as if she was enjoying 
herself very much, and she was so occupied that 
she failed to see her two school friends as she 
drove by. 

Joanna laughed. 

" That 's what you call ' keeping up,' I sup- 
pose, Cathy," she said slyly. 

Cathy did n't answer. 

" And she has got the village wagon, after all. 
You were perfectly sure she would n't get it, 
you know." 

" Well, May told me that when she asked her 
father for it, he said he did n't believe he could 
afford it now, and her stepmother flushed up 
and looked at him so queerly, as if she did n't 
like it, and so, of course. May thought that was 
the end of it. But I suppose when he came to 
think it over he was ashamed not to get it for 

Joanna wrinkled up her forehead again, but 
she kept her thoughts to herself. 

f To be continued, ) 


By S. Walter Norris. 

OME tiny elves, one evening, grew 

mischievous, it seems. 
And broke into the store-room where 

the Sand-man keeps his dreams. 
And gathered up whole armfuls of 

dreams all bright and sweet. 
And started forth to peddle them 

a-down the village street. 

Oh, you would never, never guess how queerly these dreams sold; 
Why, nearly all the youngest folk bought dreams of being old ; 
And one wee chap in curls and kilts, a gentle little thing. 
Invested in a dream about an awful [jirate king ; 



A maid, who thought her pretty name old-fashioned and absurd, 
Bought dreams of names the longest and the queerest ever heard ; 
And, strange to say, a lad, who owned all sorts of costly toys, 
Bought dreams of selUng papers \vith the raggedest of boys. 

And then a dream of summer and a barefoot boy at play 

Was bought up very quickly by a gentleman quite gray ; 

And one old lady — smiling through the grief she tried to hide — 

Bought bright and tender visions of a little girl who died. 

A ragged little beggar girl, with weary, wistful gaze, 
Soon chose a Cinderella dream, with jewels all ablaze — 
Well, it was n't many minutes from the time they came in sight 
Before the dreams were all sold out and the elves had taken flight. 


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X^t'wJ G '/^'^'^ Jo worvdrou5 wi^e ! ' 
^^l \a/i|I you. tell rvAC tke wevy 
\Jj'i'j ^ nxu^t trevvel lo-diay »j / 


ritl\cc,tcll fr\e W'\/ 


Till tkou. tKe piace kast /buixd 
■\crc tNc'^s^iAbow ladder tKat rcacKe^ tKe skieS 
^e>t<> wi'tk its end orv tKc c5rour\d 
%»Ad_climb by day ^n<d cb'rnb by ni^ Kt 
lEs^-cK slippery $eve;\/blcJ round. *' 

'^Tve Toa-d. I'i too lon^,cvnd myj^eet are too 5I0W 
^ !l, n\u|)t seek S^^'"''^^ otkcr way to do .'* 

d Wo man I© lcl^^on\ an 1 0)d-%^n> an ! c^aotKKe. 
^^'Ourc bouiAd to Kavc your own way 1 jee 
§)0 ^fy^^ dont bke it, you aeednt bianAe n^ve . 


^M^hcn Ke put tke "^^Tsnye h\ ev basKel: 
MRAnd rope> to t:l\e Kevndles l.\e /"led , 
%nc( ono he mexde /§i5t to tKc old. cKiivcK towei' 
"vci o/AC to a. tT'ee bc5icle . 

j <g%noL tKcrv w/i'tK ^ pole Kc pu^Kcd. /^er 



l^e 3WLUAQ' Ker &(( o/ey arvd. Kc sWunccKei' ni'grnt 
.s^noL me 7r\e7A ia tKe tow;\ came OLtt: to Keip 
'^'^4^tK e<'^o Ke2^ve © .' and a ffeave £\wj\y .' 
%^Kile tKc I line doers aei-tKercd zsrourxd to yelp 
c^nd hKeiP>-an-yble-'lbu>K^|jM'> cn'cd ^y-evnci-^y 
%^l( Kev,ve Kcr SwuncT up ^5ykr ev^ tKe _sky "' 



- -i—^^V^jGi?^.-"-^;.- 


_^ti:^___^^^^la'^'^man. and basket and broorn were ^en( ; 4' ^ '. 

Ken e>. /armcrs wi/e 
'^.hy^y^if-s-';" C'ut tKe ropej-and awa^ ^Ke wervt 



'Jj f Wi'nety times S^S KiVK as tKe rrvoorv. 

^yiO'la%#oman!@ld'^^manIOJdWoman!^uo//\I, / p 


I d % ^man I ©JoH^man: quo 
.^^■tAd Til be back a^a-in — by s^wik by 

O \vK;iKer,©)vvKi't|\er,©wKitKcr 30 K^^'k ?" I J 'MXi, 
" To brusK ti\c cobwebs out o/' Inejky, »> '/ ' ' f^ 



j.F.JIiH&LING- Sii 

** 1 'll wait fob you. come on ! 


By Tudor Jenks. 

Early one morning during my third visit to 
Patagonia, as I was strolling upon the banks of 
the River Chico, keeping a sharp lookout for a 
choice sjjecimen of the Rutabaga Trcmcndosa, 
I saw what, at the time, I supposed to be a 
large and isolated cliif. It looked blue, and 
consequently I supposed it to be at some dis- 
tance. Resuming my search for the beautiful 
saffron blossom which I have already named, 
my attention was for some moments abstracted. 
After pulling the plant up by the roots, how- 
ever, I happened to cast my eyes again toward 

the supposed cliff, and you can conceive my ex- 
treme mortification and regret when I saw that 
it was not a cliff at all, but a giant, and, so far 
as I could see, one of the most virulent species. 
He was advancing at a run, and although not 
exerting himself overmuch seemed to be going 
at a rate of some five kilometers a minute. Much 
annoyed at the interruption to my researches, I 
paused only long enough to deposit the Ruta- 
baga securely in my botany box and then broke 
into an accelerated trot. Do me the justice to 
acquit me of any intention of entering into a 




contest of speed with the pursuing monster. I 
am not so conceited as to imagine I can cover five 
or even three kilometers a minute. No ; I relied, 
rather, on the well-established scientific proba- 
bility that the giant was stujiid. I expected, 
therefore, that my head would have an oppor- 
tunity to save my heels. 

It was not long before I saw the need of tak- 
ing immediate steps to secure my specimens 
from destruction and myself from being eaten. 
He was certainly gaining upon me. As he 
foolishly ran with his mouth open, I noticed 
that his canine teeth were very well developed 
— not a proof, but strong evidence, that he was 
a cannibal. I redoubled my s])eed, keeping an 
eager eye ujjon the topograpliy in the hope 
that I might find some cave or crevice into 
which 1 could creep and thus obtain time 
enough to elaborate a plan of escape. I had 
not run more than si.\ or eight kilometers, I 
think (for distances are small in that jiart of 
Patagonia — or were, when I was there), when 
1 saw a most convenient cretaceous cave. 

To ensconce myself within its mineral recesses 
w-as the work of but a moment, and it was fort- 
unate for me that it took no longer. Indeed, 
as I roUeii myself deftly beneath a shelving 
rock, the giant was so near tliat he pulled off 
one of my boots. 

He sat down at the entrance and breathed 
with astonishing force and rapidity. 

" Now, if he is as stupid as one of his race 
normally should be," I said to myself, " he will 
stay there for .several hours, and I shall a 
great part of this beautiful day." The thought 
made me restless, and 1 looked about to see 
whether my surroundings would hint a solution 
of the situation. 

1 was rewardeil by discovering an outlet far 
above me. I could see through a cleft in the 
rocks portions of a cirro-cumulus cloud. Fixing 
my hat more firnil}- upon m\' head, I began the 
ascent. It did not take long. Indeed, my 
progress was, if anything, rather accelerated by 
the efforts of the attentive giant, who had secured 
a long and flexible switch, — a young India- 
rubber tree, I think, though I did not notice its 
foliage closely, — and was poking it with con- 
siderable violence into the cave. In fact, he 
lifted me some decameters at e\'erv thrust. 

It may easily be understood, therefore, that I 
was not long upon the way. When I emerged, 
I was much pleased with the situation. Speak- 
ing as a military expert, it was perfect. Stand- 
ing upon a commodious ledge, which seemed 
to have been made for the purpose, my head 
and shoulders jirojected from an opening in the 
clifl', which was just conveniently out of the giant's 
reach. As my head rose over the edge of the 
opening, the giant spoke : 

" Aha, you 're there, are you ? " 

" I won't deny it," I answered. 

" You think you 're safe, don't you ? " he went 
on tauntingly. 

" I know I 'm safe," I answered, with an easy 
confidence which was calculated to ])lease. 

" Well," he replied, " to-night I am going to 
eat you for supper ! " 

" \V'hat, then," I asked, with some curiosity, 
" are you going to do for dinner ? " 

" Oh, if that troubles you," said he, " all you 
have to do is to come out at dinner-time and I 
will eat you then." 

Evidently the giant was not a witling. His 
answers were apt. After a moment's reflection 
I concluded it was worth the effort to make an 
appeal to his better nature — his over-soul. 

" Don't you know that it is wrong to eat your 
fellow-beings ? " I a.sked, with a happy mingling 
of austere reproach and sym])athetic pain. 

" Do you mean to come out soon ? " asked 
the giant, seating himself upon an adjacent cliff, 
after tearing off such of the taller and stiffer 
trees as were in his way. 

"It depends somewhat upon whether you 
remain where you are," I answered. 

" Oh, I shall stay," said the giant, pleasandy. 
" Game is rare, and I have n't eaten a white 
man for two weeks." 

This remark brought me back to my appeal 
to his higher being. " Then I shall remain here, 
too, for the present," I answered, " though I 
should like to get away before sunset. It 's 
likely to be humid here after the sun sets. 
But. to return to my question, have you never 
thought that it was immoral and selfish to 
eat your fellow-creatures ? " 

" Why, certainly," said the giant, with a hearty 
frankness that was truly refreshing. " That is 
why," he went on, " I asked you whether you 



were coming out soon. If not, I would be glad 
to while the time away by e.xplaining to you 
exactly how 1 feel about these matters. Of 
course I could smoke you out " (here he 
showed me an enormous boulder of flint and a 
long steel rod, the latter evidently a propeller- 
shaft from some wrecked ocean-steamer), '• but 
I make it a rule seldom to eat a fellow-mortal 
until he is fully convinced that, all things con- 
sidered, I am justified in so doing." 

The allusion to the smoking-out process con- 
vinced me that this was no hulking ignoramus 
of a giant, and for a moment I began to fear 
that my Rutabaga Treinendosa was lost to the 
world forever. But the latter part of his speech 
re-assured me. 

"If you can convince me that I ought to be 
eaten," I said, willing to be reasonable, " I shall 

found employment upon a farm. I stayed there 
three days. Then I was told that it cost more 
to keep me than I was worth ; which was true. 
So I left. Then I went to work on a railroad. 
Here I did as much as twenty men. The result 
was a strike, and I was discharged." 

" Is there much more autobiography ? " I 
asked as politely as I could, for I was not at all 
interested in this unscientific memoir. 

" Very little," he answered. ■■ I can sum it 
up in a few words. Wherever I tried to get 
work, I was discharged, because my board was 
too expensive. If I tried to do more work to 
make up for it, the other men were dissatisfied, 
because it took the bread out of their mouths. 
Now, I put it to you, what was I to do ? " 

'■ Evidently, you were forced out of civiliza- 
tion," I answered, " and compelled to rely upon 


certainly ofter no objection. But I confess I 
have little fear that you will succeed." 

'■ I first discovered that I was a giant," he 
said, absently chewing the stem of the India- 
rubber tree, " at a very early age. I could not 
get enough to eat. I then lived in New York 
City, for I am an American, like yourself" 

We bowed ^\^th mutual pleasure. 

" I tried various sorts of work, but found I 
could not earn enough at any of them to pay 
my board-bills. I even exhibited myself in a 
museum, but found there the same trouble. 

" I consulted my grandfather, who was a man 
of matured judgment and excellent sense. His 
advice was to leave the city and try for work in 
the country. I did so, and after some little trouble 

nature for your sustenance. That is," I went 
on, to forestall another question, " you had to 
become a hunter, trapper, or fisherman, — for of, in your case, agriculture was out of the 
question, as you could n't easily get down 
to the ground, and would crush with your feet 
more crops than you could raise with your 

His eyes sparkled with joy at being so thor- 
oughly understood. " E.xactly," he said. "But 
the same trouble followed me there. \Mierever 
I setded, the inhabitants complained that what 
I ate would support hundreds of other people." 

" Very true," I answered ; " but, excuse me, 
could you hand me a small rock to sit upon ? — 
it is tiresome to stand here." 




" Come out," lie said. "You have my word 
of honor, as a compatriot of George " 

" Say no more ! " I broke in ha.stily. 

I came out, and was soon, by his kind aid, 
perched upon the branch of a tree conveniently 

" This argument," he said, sighing, " met me 
at every turn ; and after much cogitation I could 
see no solution of the difficulty. No matter 
how far from the ' busy haunts of men ' I pro- 
ceeded, it was only to find that food grew scarcer 
as men were less numerous. At last I reached 
Patagonia, and after a few years I have eaten it 
almost bare. Now, to what conclusion am I 
driven ? " 

I thought it over. .\t last I said : 

" I see the extremities to which you are re- 
duced. But u])on what princi])lc do you ])ro- 
ceed to the next step — cannibalism ? " 

" The greatest good to the greatest number," 
said he. " Whenever I eat an animal, I dimin- 
ish the stock of food which supports mankind, 
but whenever I eat a man, I diminish the num- 
ber to be supported. .\s all the wise men agree 
that it is the subsistence which is short, my 
course of action tends ultimately to the greater 
ha]i|)iness of the race." 

This seemed very reasonable and for a mo- 
ment I was staggered. Then a hapj))' thought 

"'AHA, VOL" 're there, ARE VOU ? ' " 



• 6s 

came to me, and I sug- 
gested that it' he should 
allow himself to die ol 
start-atioa the demaod 
for subsistence would be 
:<ill moie leduced. 

: shook his head 
•* 1 used to h. re 
so mysel£ But the 


to most accurate <(.'.■> 
noi. has c-on\-ince«;l :«c 
j»;;. "nd a doubt that I 
can catch •-■ M^ch 

men, in a ;. .. -, -liorc 

:han make up for what 
would be saved if I 
should allow my own 
organism to cease its 
active exenioit> in the 
(.M-^- of humanity." 

I thought ren- cans 
fitUr over these argu- 
ments and was unable 
•jiw in thetn. 
in of ^<ieoce." 
I said, after a pause, " I 
couM wish that dtis in- 
terview might be iw- 
poned to the world.** 

- Give yourself no 
uncastnesss. It >haU be 
doQc." said the giant. 

- .Vnd I should also be 
glad to have the Rmta- 

(•tr ; ! T' ■■ - 

" With pleasure," said the gunt 
'IThrt* was no exctise for further ticii* 

\ •.,. '. '. '.htf ^iant. — In i 
' .: •- - :•.. .rsation verhitif 
tessof htmsHt, before su[ 
p«a{»<r again, but the Ui 

■'.lent tastes, and i^. 
x^r:'i htm verv rr. 



I said, and kkked off the other 

kmd mvitatuo. 1 should lind it graoiying to have the trustees at my own table. \ 


Bv Walter Camp. 


KHOI'ES. WO'iiiRihF. lltH"ELFlNGER. 

MlCU no. CORI'IN. 





"What makes a good foot-ball player?" is a 
question asked over and over again. Many are 
the answers given, but no answer is correct that 
does not contain the word " pluck." The same 
elements that go to make up excellence in anv 
of the other field sports are requisite in foot-ball : 
but while in certain of the others that peculiar 
type of courage called pluck is only required in 
a moderate degree, in foot-ball it is absolutely 
indispensable. Many a man has said: "Oh! I 
am too small to play foot-ball ; I could n't get 
on the team." Such a man makes a mistake. 

Look at the records of our j)layers and see how 
full they are of the names of small men. With- 
ington. Gushing, Harding, Hodge, Beecher, and 
twenty others, have played weighing under a 
hundred and fort)' I Nor has it been that their 
deeds have been remembered because performed 
by such small men. These men made points as 
well as reputations. There is a place on the foot- 
ball field for a man, no matter what he weighs ; 
and that brings to mind a remarkable pair of boys 
and what they did for a Yale team at one time. 
One was the .son of a United States Senator 



from Massachusetts, and the other a younger 
brother of a well-known Brooklyn lawyer. They 
were classmates at Yale, and had done more or 
less foot-ball work during the course. These 
two men ^veighed about a hundred and twenty- 
five pounds apiece, or together a little over the 
weight of the 'varsity snap-back. In that year 
the 'varsity team was suffering from a combina- 
tion of two disorders — over-confidence and lack 
of strong practice. None knew this better than 
these two little chaps, for they understood the 
game thoroughly. One day, then, they appeared 
at the field in their foot-ball toggery, and without 
assistance from the 'varsity captain set at once 
to work upon organizing the " scrub side," as the 
outside or irregular players are called. One of 
them played center and the other quarter, and 
it was not many days before the scrub side be- 
gan to have a game and a way of its own. The 
overfed, underworked university players began 
to find that they could n't have things all their 
own way. Such tricks \vere played upon them 
that they were forced to wake from their apathy. 
These two boys began to show them the way to 
make use of brains against weight and strength, 
and the scrub side, that a week or two before had 
been unable to hold the 'varsity even enough 
to make the contest interesting, actually had the 
audacity to score against them once or twice 
every afternoon. How those two ever got such 
work out of the rabble they had to handle, no 
one knows to this da)' ; but it was the making of 
the 'varsity team, for it speedily developed 
under this experience into one of Yale's strong- 
est teams, and I have often heard one of that 
team remark since that he 'd rather play against 
any team in the Association than against the 
"scrubs" lead by " Pop " Jenks and "Timmy " 

This brings us to another quality : the brains 
of a team. That team is the best which has the 
most brains. Foot-ball is, even now, an unde- 
veloped sport. There is room for an almost 
infinite number of as yet unthought-of plays. 
Every season brings forward man\- new ones. 
If a player wishes to devote a little of his spare 
time to a fascinating amusement, let him take 
pencil and paper and plan out combinations in 
the evening, and try them the next day. He 
will soon find that he is bringing out not only 

new but successful plays. Some think that the 
captain of the 'varsity team is the only one who 
has an opportunity to try this ; but if two or three 
on the scrub side will make the attempt they will 
find that a 'varsity team is no more proof against 
a new scheme than the veriest scrub team in ex- 
istence. In fact, oftentimes the 'varsity players 
are so sublime in their own consciousness of 
superiority that they are the simplest men on 
the field to lead into traps and defeat by a little 
exercise of ingenuity. If a boy at school is n't 
on the first team, he can get together a few men 
of the second team and have the satisfaction of 
actually showing his betters how to play. 

" Play not for gain but sport," is thoroughly 
sound ; but it means play honestly and hard, not 
listlessly and carelessly, and make it your sport 
to win. Then if you lose, put a good face on 
it ; but go home and think out a way to win next 
time. Brains w'ill beat brute strength every time 
if you give them fair play. 

Kndurance is another element of success. 
Plenty of dash when it is necessary, but behind 
it there must be the steady, even, staying quali- 
ties. For these, good training is chiefly responsi- 
ble ; because, although natural endurance does 
exist in some men, it is not common, while the 
entlurance of well-trained men is a thing that 
can be relied upon with confidence. 

.\ direct case in point was a \ictorj' of Prince- 
ton over Yale, in 1878. Upon the Yale team 
were some three or four men, upper class men, 
W'ho thought that they had done enough training 
in former years, and they therefore made but a 
pretense of following out the rules of strict 
training. The example of these men aft'ected 
several of the other players to such an extent 
that there was great laxity. Up to the time of 
the final contest, this team had performed well, 
and it was generally believed that they would 
have no great difficulty in defeating Princeton. 

In the first half of the game they pressed the 
Orange men hard, and several times all but 
scored. In the dressing-room at intermission 
there was a general impression that, with the «ind, 
which would be in Yale's favor the second half, 
they must surely win. The second half began, 
and it was not many minutes before the Yale 
men found themselves steadily losing ground. 
There was in the Princeton runners a resistless 

1 68 



force that kept Yale retreating nearer and nearer ton had come to New Haven after a long 
to her own goal. At last, by a brilliant play, wrangle about the place of playing, and had 
Princeton succeeded in making a touch-down brought a team supposed by experts through- 




WELD — manal,i;r 


Cf.MNOCK. L1-:L. 



from which a goal was kicked. During the re- 
mainder of the game, Princeton, although mak- 
ing no further score, held Yale fast down inside 
the twenty-five-yard line, and the Blue went 
back to New Haven with a very salutary lesson 
on the evil of neglecting the laws of training. 

These are laws which no foot-ball player can 
afford to ignore. 

L.\m.a.r's Rux. 

One of the most magnificent dashes ever 
made on an American foot-ball field was the 
run made by Lamar, of Princeton, in the game 
with Yale, which was played upon the Yale 
field, November 21, 1885. The game had 
been an unusual one in many respects. Prince- 

out the country to be sure winners. The Yale 
team was a green one, and none of her parti- 
sans hoped for more than a respectable show- 
ing against the Princeton veterans. But Peters, 
the Yale captain, had done wonders with his 
recruits, as the game soon showed. His team 
opened with a rush and actually forced the 
fight for the entire first half They scored a 
goal from the field upon the astonished Prince- 
tonians, and, in spite of the vahant efforts put 
forth against them, seemed certain of victory. 
The feeling of the Princeton team and her sym- 
pathizers can easily be imagined. The sun was 
low in the horizon, nearly forty minutes of the 
second half were gone, and no one dared to 
hope such failing fortunes could be retrieved in 
the few remaining minutes. The ball was in 



Yale's hands, half-way down the field and on 
the northern edge. For a moment Captain 
Peters hesitated, and consulted with another of 
his players as to whether he should continue the 
running game and thus make scoring against 
him impossible and victory certain, or send the 
ball by a kick down in front of his enemy's goal 
and trust to a fumble to increase his score. Per- 
haps not a dozen men knew what was in his 
mind. A kick was surely the more generous 
play in the eyes of the crowd. He settled the 
ball under his foot, gave the signal, and shot it 
back. The quarter sent it to Watkinson, who 
drove it with a low, swinging punt across the 

attempted to catch it, but it shot off his breast to- 
ward the southern touch-line. Lamar, who had 
been slightly behind this man, was just starting 
up to his assistance from that particular spot. As 
the ball shd off with its force hardly diminished 
he made a most difficult short-bound catch of 
it on the run, and sped away along the south- 
ern boundary. The Yale forwards had all gone 
past the ball, in their expectation of getting 
it, as they saw the missed catch. Lamar, 
therefore, went straight along toward the half- 
back and back. Watkinson, the kicker, had 
hardly stirred from his tracks, as the entire play 
had occupied but a few seconds, and he was 





twenty-five-yard line and toward the farther therefore too near the northern side of the field 
goal post. It was a perfect kick for Yale's to have even a chance to cut off the runner, 
purposes, difficult to catch and about to land Lamar, with the true instinct of the born run- 
close to the enemy's posts. A Princeton man ner, saw in a moment his opportunity, and ran 
Vol. XVII.— 20. 




Straight along the southern edge as if he in- 
tended to get by there. Bull and his comrade 
(who then were inexperienced tacklers) were the 
two men in his pathway, and they both bunched 


over by the line as the Princeton runner came 
flying down upon them. Just as he was almost 
upon them, Lamar made a swerve to the right, 
and was by them like lightning before either 
could recover. By this time two or three of the 
Yale forwards, Peters among them, had turned 
and were desperately speeding up the field after 
Lamar, who was but a few yards in advance, 
having given up several yards of his advantage 
to the well-executed maneuver by which he 
had cleared his field of the half-back and back. 
Then began the race for victory. Lamar had 
nearly forty yards to go, and, while he was run- 
ning well, had had a sharp " breather " already, 
not only in his run thus far, but in his superb 
dodging of the backs. Peters, a strong, untiring, 
thoroughly trained runner, was but a few yards 
behind him, and in addition to this he was the 
captain of a team which but a moment before 
had been sure of victory. How he ran ! But 
Lamar — did he not too know full well what the 
beat of those footsteps behind him meant ? The 
white five-yard lines fairly flew under his feet; 

past the broad twenty-five-yard hne he goes, 
still with three or four yards to spare. Now he 
throws his head back with that familiar motion 
of the sprinter who is almost to the tape, and 
who will run his heart 
out in the last few 
strides, and, almost be- 
fore one can breathe, 
he is over the white 
goal-line and panting 
on the ground, with 
the ball under him, 
a touch-down made, 
from which a goal was 
kicked, and the day 
saved for Princeton. 

Bull's Kick. 

The season of 1888 
had opened with a veri- 
table foot-ball boom. 
The previous season 
had ended with a close 
contest between Har- 
vard and Yale, while 
Princeton, although oc- 
cupying third place, had had by no means a 
weak team. Reports of the preliminary work of 
the three great teams, while conflicting, pointed 
m a general way to an increased strength at each 
uni\ersity. The Boston papers were lauding the 
work of the Harvard team, and the New York 
papers returning the compliment with tales of 
large scores by the Princeton men. Advices from 
New Haven showed that Yale had a far greater 
wealth of material from which to draw players 
than either of the others, so that although the 
actual strength of the team could not be learned, 
it was certain that the lugubrious reports from 
the City of Elms had little foundation. In 
this state of affairs, the first game, which was 
scheduled to be between the Crimson and the 
Orange and Black, was eagerly awaited. The 
game was played at Princeton, and an enor- 
mous crowd assembled to wimess the match. 
Both sides were confident of victory, and 
Princeton was also determined to avenge the 
defeat of the former season. The day was per- 
fect, and the game a thoroughly scientific one. 



Although Harvard battled manfully up to the 
very last moment, she could not overcome the 
lead which Princeton had obtained early in the 
game, and was at last forced to return to Cam- 
bridge defeated. The hopes of Princeton soared 
up that afternoon to the highest pitch, and those 
who were well posted on the relative merits of 
foot-ball players agreed with them that their 
prospects were indeed of the brightest. Had it 
not been for news which came over the wires 
that evening from New Haven, it would have 
been concluded that Princeton would find an 
easy prey in Yale. But that news was some- 
thing startling. It seems that the Yale-Wes- 
leyan championship game had been played that 
same day. Harvard and Princeton had each 
already met Wesleyan, 
but neither had scored 
over fifty points against 
them. The astonish- 
ment of all foot-ball 
men was great, then, 
when the news came ^ ^ 
that Yale had made {^^l^X; 
the almost unprece- (fxf&KW 
dented score of 105 l=-f^\ h'' 
againstthe Middletown 
men. This, then, was 
the state of affairs pre- 
vious to the Yale- 
Princeton match. Har- 
vard was now out of 
the question, owing to 
her defeat by Prince- 
ton, and all interest 
centered in this final 
contest. The day, while 
not very promising in 
its morning aspect, 
turned out propitious toward noon, and fully fif- 
teen thousand people crowded the Polo Grounds 
before the players stepped out on the field. A 
perfect roar of applause greeted the entrance 
of the rival teams, and as they lined out facing 
one another not even the most indifferent could 
help feeling the thrill of suppressed excitement 
that trembled through the vast throng. The 
game began, and for twenty-five minutes first 
one side gained a slight advantage, then the 
other, but neither had been able to score. The 

Yale men had a slight advantage in position, 
having forced the ball into Princeton's territory. 
So manfully were they held from advancing 
closer to the coveted goal, that people were be- 
ginning to think that the game might result in a 
draw, neither side scoring. At this point Yale 
had possession of the ball. That slight change 
in position, — that massing of the forwards to- 
ward the center and the closing up of the back, 
— that surely means something ! Yes, Princeton 
sees it too, and eagerly her forwards press up in 
the line with their eyes all centered on the back, 
for it is evident he is to try a drop-kick for goal. 
This bright-faced, boyish-looking fellow, with 
a rather jaunty air, is Bull, Yale's famous drop- 
kicker. He seems calm and quiet enough as 


he gives a look of direction to the quarter and 
with a smile steps up to the spot where he 
wishes the ball thrown. There is a moment of 
expectancy, and then the whole forward Hne 
seems torn asunder, and through the gap comes 
a mass of Princeton rushers with a furious dash, 
but just ahead of them flies the ball, from the 
quarter, straight and sure into Bull's outstretched 
hands. It hardly seems to touch them, so 
quickly does he turn the ball and drop it before 
him, as with a swing of his body he brings him- 



self into kicking attitude, and catching tlie ball 
with his toe, as it rises from the ground, shoots it 
like a bolt just over the heads of the Princeton 
forwards, and — down he goes in the rush! The 



ball, however, sails smoothly on, high in the air, 
just missing by a few feet the wished-for goal. 
A sigh of relief escapes from the troubled 
breasts of Princeton sympathizers as they realize 
that, for a time, at least, the danger is past. 
The Orange and Black bring the ball out for a 
kick-out, and work desperately to force it up 
the field, having had too vivid a realization of 
danger to desire a repetition. Again, however, 
they are driven steadily back until the Yale 
captain thinks he is near enough to give Bull a 
second opportunity, and at a signal the forma- 
tion for a kick is again made. Bull, a little less 
smiling, a trifle less jaunty in his air, again takes 
his position. Again Princeton opens up the 
line and drives her forwards down upon him, 
but again that deadly drop sails over their 
heads; this time a foot nearer the black cross- 
bar. Another kick-out bv Princeton follows, 

and another desperate attempt to force the 
blue back to the center of the field, but with 
a maddening persistency, and with a steady 
plunging not to be checked, the gray and blue 
line fights its way, \ard by yard, down upon the 
Princeton territory. Captain Corbin glances 
once more at the goal, sees that his line is 
near enough, and again gives the signal. Bull 
teps up for the third time, and his smile has 
flown. He realizes that twice have his ten men 
< arried the ball for him up to the very door 
of victory, only to see him close that door in 
their faces. His lips are firmly set as his resolve 
shows itself in every line of his well-knit frame. 
He settles himself firmly on his feet and gives 
the signal for the ball to come. For the third 
time the little quarter hurls it from under the 
vcr)- feet of the plunging mass, and this time Bull 
>cnds it true as a bullet straight over the cross- 

bar between the posts. With a yell of dehght 
the Yale men rush madly over the ropes and seize 
the successful kicker. In the second half Bull 
has but one opportunity; but he takes advantage 
of that one to score another goal, and when the 
game is over is borne off in triumph by the 
rejoicing Yalensians, the hero of the day. 





'W The 




By M. Helen Lovett. 

The Emperor sat in his chair of state ; 
Round about did the courtiers wait. 
With cues behind 

And smiles before, 
They bowed to the Emperor 
Down to the floor. 
The Emperor's visage was yellow of hue, 

And half-shut eyelids his eyes peered 

A letter he read. 



Then he nodded his head, 

And, '■ Indeed it 's quite true," he frequently said. 
For the letter described in words glowing like flame 
Great Chinaland's glory, her Emperor's fame. 

It came from Japan, from the Emperor there 
(I don't know his name, but perhaps you don't 

And it went on to say, 
In the pleasantest way: 
'■ Good Brother of China, best greeting to-day. 
I beg you '11 accept, as a verj- small token 
Of my regard, which can never be spoken, 
This coach and four. 

From England, you see, 
The Englishmen sent it 
A present to me. 
The kindly barbarians tendered me two ; 
As I can't use both, I now send one to you." 

Well pleased was the Emperor. 

" Bring it up here. 
You fellows, stand back there ! — 

And make the 
way clear." 
" Pardon, Your Majesty, 
That can not be ; 

The coach will not go through the doorway, you 




There came a dark frown on the Emperor's 
" Then I 'II go down, for I must see it now." 

So down the stairs the Emperor ran, 

And the courtiers followed, every man ; 

As fast as they can they scuffle and run 

After their master to see the fun. 

After him, mind you, for you see. 

The rule of the best society 

Had been, for thousand of years and more: 
" The Emperor always goes before." 

The coach and four at the palace door 
Was as large as life, or a size or two more. 
With coachman and footman all complete. 
And cushions of silk on the very best seat. 
And round about in procession they walked, 
And e.^amined it all, and stared and talked. 
And the Emperor rubbed his hands with pride ■ 
" I '11 climb up in front there and take a ride." 
But the coachman said, " Your Majesty, 

The seat inside is for you, you see ; 

The one in front 's where the driver sits — " 

" WHAT ? This fellow is out of his wits. 
Idiot ! Don't you know the rule ? — 
Were n't manners taught when you went to 

school ? 
Remember this, if you know no more : 
'The Emperor always goes before.' 

" That highest £:eat 
(Must I repeat?) 

Is the one where the Emperor ought to go. 
I can't ride aft. 
And you must be daft, 



For a moment to have fancied so ! " 
And up on end each pigtail stood, 
To think that the Emperor ever could, 
Did, should, might or would 
Ride behind. "Now, did you ever?" 
" No, really, upon my word, I never." 

"But how shall I drive, Your 

Majesty ? " 
"Through the windows, or, — I don't 

care," said he. 
"That is _y07/r business, I should say, 
But hand those cushions up this 

way. " 
It could n't be helped, so off they 

The Emperor rode to his heart's 

But long did the Emperor rue that 

Of course the horses ran away, 

And the Emperor, as you may 

Came to the ground on his royal 

His royal brow had a bump for a 

And one of the royal legs was 


All he could do 

(What more could you ?) 

Was to hang the coachman and 

footman too. 
And then the Emperor changed 

the rule. 
And now you would learn, if you 

went to school 
In Chinaland ('t is a proverb 

■ We call \ijirst\\\\en the Emperor 's 


— ^ 

By Ida Warner Van der Voort. 

The shadows of night he drifted over the valley and hill, 
And earth is hushed and silent under the starlight still ; 
A low-voiced breeze is complaining among the willows and reeds, 
Where the brook creeps stealtjiily onward away through the flowery meads ; 
The goldenrod 's drowsily nodding, heavy with dew and perfume, 
The grasses are whispering tenderly their secrets in the gloom ; 
When hark ! thro' the hush and the starlight, a low sweet note is heard — 
A low sweet note, like the call of a dreaming, half-wakened bird ; 
On the air it lingers a moment, then trembling passes away, 
As a falling summer blossom floats down from the parent spray. 
But again and again it rises, in tones ever stronger and stronger, 
Calling, and calling, and calling, it grows ever louder and longer ; 
And see ! from behind a hill-top the ruddy-faced moon appears. 
As if she paused to listen to the strange sweet sounds she hears; 
While dark against the brilliant disk a boyish form is seen. 
An elfish, wild-eyed lad is he, with hair of a golden sheen ; 
A bonny boy, most fair to see, and tucked beneath his chin 
He holds, and plays with loving touch, a quaint old violin. 
But what can bring him here to-night ? For whom does he wait and call ? 
For whom are they meant, those pleading strains that softly rise and fall ? 
There 's a sudden rustle of little feet within the dusky shade — 
With timid approach, and swift retreat, a rabbit comes over the glade ; 
Nearer, still nearer he comes, like stars are his eager eyes, 
They glow thro' the gloom of the evening, filled with a shy surprise ; 
And soon on every side are seen, eager, but half afraid. 
The rabbits young, and rabbits old, of every size and shade, 







Drawn by the notes so wild and weird, they gather from far and near; 

Advancing, retreating, on they come, pausing to listen, and peer, 

And prick their silken, sensitive ears, and turn each little head. 

Starting in fright if a withered leaf but crackles beneath their tread. 

Soon, however, their fear departs, and under the magic spell. 

Close to the feet of the player they creep, while higher the wild notes swell, 

Until, like one who wakes from a trance, the player stays his hand, 

And his large dark eyes look dreamily over the charmed band. 

A faint smile curves his rosy lips, he flings back his golden hair. 

And, slowly rising, forward moves, through the mellow moon-lit air. 

The rabbits, grasping harebell wands, alert and upright st.Tnd. 

And playing a merry elfin march, he leads them through the land. 

Past fields where the yellow corn-husks whisper in drowsy surprise; 

Past vagrant vines' detaining arms, red with the autumn dyes; 







Through the bracken, and over a brook, and on till they reach 

a dell 
Deep in the heart of an odorous wood, where night has cast 
its spell ; 
A mossy glade where the mounting moon but glances through clustering trees, 
And there, on a stately cabbage throne, the leader sits at ease, 
While thronged about on every side, his furry followers sing. 
As sweetly from their chiming bells a blithe refrain they ring : 

" JVi: come from the T'allev, 7i<e come from the hill. 
At thy summorn we rally to answer thy rcill. 
]Ve hail, 7C'e hail thee with joyous delight, 
We 'II dance 'neath the trees in the mystic tnoonlight. 
For we come from the valley, we come from the hill. 
At thv summons we rally to ansiuer thy will." 

With a madder, merrier peal of bells, they gayly end their song, 
The violin takes up the strain, and soon the little throng 
Is whirling o'er the dewy sward to a waltz's dizzy measure. 
And not a rabbit of them all but joins the dance with pleasure. 
As round and round they wildly fly, one slips upon the moss ; 
Her partner still whirls gayly on, unconscious of his loss. 
Thus many couples come to grief: exhausted, down they sink. 
Their heads spin round with giddiness the while they wink and blink. 


At last, of all the jolly throng, one couple 's left alone, 

And now an impish spirit seems to rule the music's tone. 

Fast and furious flies the bow, the antics grow more mad ; 

Such flapping ears and twinkling feet, — 't would make a hermit glad; 

Such leaps, and bounds, and capers queer, their comrades grow excited. 

And ring their bells applaudingly, and cheer them on, delighted. 



At length the willful measures cease, the weary dancers pause, 

And answer with triumphant smiles the well-deserved applause. 

The fiddler now advances, the lucky pair are crowned. 

As King and Queen of Rabbitland they '11 reign the whole year round. 

Then some, of course, are envious, and mutter, "Are n't they proud! " 

As the new-made monarchs proudly turn to greet the cheering crowd. 

But when a stately air is played, all march up two by two. 



Salute the royal couple, and for grace and favor sue. 

A cheerful banquet now is served, composed of cabbage salad ; 

(The way that cabbage disappeared would make a gardener pallid!) 

The kind old moon, upon the wane, looks down and smiles benign, 

In low and mystic monotone murmur the oak and pine. 

But see! — once more the elfish lad shakes back his golden hair. 

Draws bow across the singing strings. His summons cleaves the air. 



The eager rabbits upward spring and each one grasps his bell. 
And now begin the queerest games within the dim-lit dell. 
One little bunny, long of ear, and with most roguish eyes, 
Sits quite erect, while over him to leap each comrade tries ; 





And one falls unexpectedly upon his precious head, 

And lies a moment not quite sure if he 's alive or dead. 

Another turns a somersault just as he 's nearly over, 

And finds pine-needles, as a bed, can not compare with clover. 






They play a royal game of " tag," and " hide-and-seek " comes after, 

While all the dusky woods resound with peals of rabbit laughter. 

Some form a ring and dance about their harebells stacked together, 

One dares to tickle the monarch's ear with downy bits of feather. 

And shakes with mirth unbounded, as his Majesty flaps and twitches, — 

Xo lover of fun would have missed the sight for all (lolconda's riches! 

But now the music changes, the strain grows weirdly wild, 

Then sinks, and almost dies away, in cadence soft and mild ; 

A pause, and then an outburst so unrestrained and glad, 

Each rabbit takes a partner and dashes off like mad. 

And round and round, and to and fro, they gayly fly, until — 

The tired old moon slips out of sight, and all is dark and still. 

If •tlEBABE^eR.e-Tfie -ISafid^ 

By Francis Randall. 

F the little toddling babies 
\\'ere the makers of our lays, 
You 'd find verses very difi'erent 
In a thousand startling ways. 
The babes would be exalted, 
And the rest of us appear 
As the secondary creatures 
Of a very different sphere. 
Just imagine that the baby 
Wrote the songs we here have shown 
And gave them to the world at large 
From his little baby throne : 

Be kind to the baby. 

For when thou art old 

Who '11 nurse thee so tender as he, — 

Who '11 catch the first accents that fall from 

thy tongue 
Or laugh at thy innocent glee ? 

Rock-a-bye, Papa, 
On the tree-top, 
When the wind blows 
The cradle will rock ; 
When the bough bends 
The cradle will fall — 
Down will come Papa 
And cradle and all. 



Bye, Mamma Bunting, 

Baby 's gone a-hunting. 

Gone to get a rabbit-skin 

To wrap the Mamma Bunting in. 

Oh, Baby, dear Baby, come home with me now, 

The clock in the steeple strikes one ; 

You said you were coming right in from the yard, 

As soon as your mud-pie was done. 

The fire 's gone out : the house is all cold ; 

And Mother 's been watching since tea, 

With poor Father Jimmy asleep by the fire. 

And no one to help her but me. 


By Daisy F. Barry. 

ID you ever keep a 
calendar ? I have 
kept one all this 
year, and it has 
given me so much 
pleasure that I 
have resolved to 
keep one always 
as long as I live. 
I will tell you 
how I came to keep it. For three or four years 
past, my sister has been in correspondence with 
the secretary of a society in which we are both 
very much interested ; but she has been the 
w'orking member, for, although I am the elder, 
I am never quite well. 

One New Year's Eve I received a letter from 
the secretary telling me that he wished me to 
keep a calendar. " It does n't matter for us 
older ones," he said, " for our lives are tinted 
with the sober grays of evening ; but you others, 
you young ones, who never know what is coming 
to you, are as happy as the song-birds one min- 
ute, and ready to break your hearts the next 
because of sorrow and disappointment. Your 
lives are like pictures with brilliant lights and 
deep shadows contrasted. 

" Now it is a fact that all of us have more 
bright spots than shadows in our lives, especially 
while we are young, but as we grow older we 
do not belie\'e it, perhaps because our sorrowful 
moods are easier to remember than our joyful 
ones ; but if you keep a record of the gleams 
of gladness that brighten your life, you will be 
astonished, when you look back, to find how 
much happiness you have enjo)-ed,and then, too, 
it will always be a pleasure to recall the memory 
of past joys. 

" The keeping of a calendar," he went on, " is 
a very easy matter. All that you need is the 
Vol. XVII.— 21. 185 

calendar, a clean pen, and a bottle of red ink. 
Every evening you take out your calendar, and, 
if the day has been a happy one, draw a red 
line all around the date; if it brought you only 
some gleams of gladness, make a red dot for 
every gleam; and if it was a day of sorrow un- 
relieved by any brightness, leave the date blank, 
surrounded only by its own black line." 

Well, of course I was delighted with the idea, 
and also with the calendar and pen which ac- 
companied the letter ; and as New Year's Day 
was a day of unalloyed gladness, although the 
doctor kept me a close prisoner all the time, I 
drew a red line all round the date. 

Since then my brother has had a long illness, 
and my mother broke down under the strain of 
nursing him, and me, for I was ill too ; but for 
all that, if you could only see how my calendar is 
illuminated with red all through, you would be 
convinced that my life is a happy one; and I do 
really believe that it is all the brighter for my 
calendar. It forces me to notice the bright mo- 
ments that come every day, and which would 
otherwise be lost in the shadows. 

The calendar I have, however, was not in- 
tended for " keeping." It does very well to 
show which days were happy and which were 
not, but there is no space for writing a word or 
two to tell the cause of the pleasure or why 
some of the dates are left blank ; but next year 
there will, perhaps, be a calendar made expressly 
for the use I have described. I suppose I am 
the first who ever kept such a calendar. Keep- 
ing a diary is quite another matter. There ought 
to be a space with each date for a few words to 
explain the causes of the brightness of some days, 
and the colorlessness of others. 

I hope that next year everybody will keep a 
calendar, for I feel quite sure that all who do so 
will find great pleasure in it. 


By H. Butterworth. 

Glory in the Highest " be sung in an 

anteroom or choir-gallery, this dialogue may be used 
as a recitation, with musical accompaniment. 

" Where have you come from, Mabel mine, 
While the stars still shine, the stars still 
With a happy dream in those eyes of thine, 
Early, this Christmas morning ? " 

" I 've just come back from Slumber-land ; 
1 've come from the night in Slumber-land ; 
I 've come from the stars in Slumber-land ; 
I 've come from the music in Slumber-land, 
Early, this Christmas morning." 

" What did you see there in the night, 

Mabel mine, Mabel mine ? " 
" I saw a stable and star-lamp's light, 

Early, this Christmas morning. 

" I saw a stable in Slumber-land, 

And a little Babe A\-ith a snow-white hand. 
And 'round the Babe the dumb beasts stand. 
Early, this Christmas morning." 

" AMiat did you hear in Slumber-land, 

Mabel mine, Mabel mine ? " 
" Music, Mother, a song divine, 

Early, this Christmas morning." 



" ■Wliat was the song that tlie voices sung, 

■•V\^;^^vSS^J " ^^'l^^t ^^-as the song that tlie voices sun- 
<\ y^c^Wl ^^ '"'" '"■^' """ '^^^'^ th^ 'o^^ ^ta^s hung ; 

^« D-^ \ V^ '' •'''*" ^'™°^' ^^^" " ^'''^ '" the sky, 

\J<^3ik\ \' 'Listen, listpn ti,o cfw„.- ,j__ •' , . 


■Listen, Hsten,— the strain draws nigh ! 
' Glory in the highest ! Glory ! ' " 

" ^^'hat else did you see in Slumber-land, 

Mabel mine, Mabel mine ? " 
" I saw the shepherds listening stand, 

Early, this Christmas morning." 

" What said the shepherds there on the plain ? " 
" They touched their reeds and answered the strain 
' Glory m the highest ! Glory ! ' 
\\-hen the angels ceased, the shepherds sung 

' Glory in the highest ! Glory ! ' 
And the earth and sky with the anthem rung, 
' Glory m the highest ! Glory I '" 

" O Mabel, Mabel, your dream was sweet, 
And sweet to my soul is your story ; 
Like the shepherd's song let our lips repeat 
' Glory in the highest ! Glory ! ' " 


" Plkase give us some more stories by Miss Alcott — 
we want so much another long serial by Miss Alcotl," 
was the request that came to us again and again from 
hundreds of our young readers in the years lately flown ; 
and again and again their beloved author complied, striv- 
ing to meet their demand — in heart and will devoted to 
her faithful work. And now that she can tell them no 
more, a truer story than them all has been sent out to 
the world by Messrs. Roberts Brothers, of Boston — a 
story told by her own earnest and inspiring life : " Louisa 
M<iy Alcott : Her Life, Letters, and Journals. Edited by 
Ednah 1). Cheney." 

The book will endear her more than ever to thousands of 
boys and girls, for in some respects it is like a new part 
of "Little Women," appealing also to the now grown-up 
generation of early admirers of the brave and good 

" March" family. The pages contain two excellent por- 
traits of Miss Alcott, and facsimiles of some of her letters. 

Jack-i.\-thePulpit, who has, this month, given his 
two pages to Mr. Butterworlh's " For Christmas Day," 
will greet his merry crowd again in the January number. 

He bids us give you, all, his compliments and the 
best wishes of the season And he also asks us to correct 
an error that slipped into his sermon last month. The 
credit of those big Thanksgiving pumpkins, he says, be- 
longs to Southern California, not to Nebraska. The 
photograph that came to liim had, by some oversight, 
been wrongly inscribed — and he says no one can judge 
merely by the expression of a pumpkin's face where in 
the world it comes from. Everything depends upon its 
being properly presented. 


Tacoma, W. T. 

My Dear St. Nichoijis: You will consider me a 
pretty Urge "boy," I fancy, to write letters to the St. 
Nicholas, when I tell you that I am a full-grown man 
of twenty, already in business. But I thought it might 
interest your young re.iders to get a letter from this far 
distant but most beautiful " City of Destiny," as it is 
called. We — my brother and myself — have taken your 
magazine ever since the first number was issued, and we 
have every volume complete, neatly bound. So much do 
we value it, that we shall continue subscribers as long 
as we live, and we hope our children and grandchildren 
may enjoy it as much as we do. ^'ou published, some 
years ago, a letter we sent to you, as having been ihc /rst 
chiUren to ni.ike the ascent of Mount Marcy, the highest 
peak of the .\dirondacks, in 1S77. I wish you had space 
to publish all I should like to write .about this wonder- 
fully thriving city on the shores of Puget Sound, not very 
far from Alaska, and the region made famous by the 
Arctic exploring expeditions. I should like to interest 
the children of the East in the beautiful I'acific Coast 
country in this section of the land, so wonderful in its 
developments, so fertile in resources. 

I hope to attempt the ascent of Mount Tacoma, over 
fourteen thousand feet high and always snow-capped, 
and, if I do, will give you my experience. 

I will just mention that there are few, if any, birds 
here ; no cats except such as are brought from other 
places, and a scarcity of dogs. 

But I have taken up too much space already, although 
there is much of absorbing interest to young and old that 
I could write about from this distant part of our Union. 

Very sincerely, your "old" boy, W. A. B . 


Dear St. Nicholas : Morriston n is a very pretty 
and healthy place, about thirty miles from New York ; 
and there are many beautiful places here. There is a 
very fine girls' school, which I attend. 

1 will now tell you about my pets. I have one kitten 
and three turtles. My kitten, "Bright Eyes," is a small, 
gray striped kitten, jly turtles are "Apollo," " Diana," 
and "Venus " Apollo is an orange and black turtle. 
I have not tamed him very well yet, and he is quite 

cross. Diana is yellow and black, and exceedingly gentle, 
and feeds out of my hands. Venus is my little water- 
turtle. His back is black, with small, bright orange spots 
on it, and underneath it has three stripes, two black and 
one a sort of pinkish orange. He also feeds out of my 
hands. Turtles like to eat all kinds of berries, meat, and 
some vegetables. They sleep very soundly, and some- 
times snore. Your constant reader, K . 

New River, White Sulphur, Va. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little girl, eleven years 
old, and I have been spending a month at these Springs 
with my mother and father, and my three brothers and 
my sister Grace. The Indians used to call the New 
River"rhe River of Death." It is so dangerous, though 
very beautiful. Here it flows through cliffs three hun- 
dred feet high. They are of perpendicular gray rock, 
and clothed with lovely vines, and, with dark cedars 
springing up in every nook, are just like huge ruined 
castles. .At the foot of the cliffs the river runs so deep it 
has never been sounded. Seven miles from here is Moun- 
tain Lake — a salt hike three thousand feet above the 
level of the sea — at the top of all the mountains, and from 
the top of" Bald Knob," one of them, you can see five 
States. When Sr. Nicholas came here this month, we 
each of us were willing to take care of our two-year-old 
brother three hours, for the sake of reading it. And 
Mother said she wished it would come every day. She 
did not think we would be like the little girl who became 
so sick of Christmas. The presents this St. NichoLj\s 
brings of splendid stories are so much more durable than 
those of the other St. Nick. 

Aflfectionately, your friend, Anna C. S . 

My Dear Friend St. Nicholas : I have intended 
for quite a long time to tell you about my " Mother 
Goose " scrap-book. My first idea of it came when I the article in the August number, for 18S3. It was 
called " Home-made Mother Goose," and proposed that 
all who were wear)' of pasting their advertisement cards 
in books, should make a book of linen, and use cards and 


parts of them cut out, to illustrate the ■' Mother Goose " 
melodies. Well, I concluded to try it, and only now, in 
1SS9, is my book completed. To begin with, I m.ide a 
book out of paper-musUn, which had twenty-two leaves, 
and I used but one side of the page. It was no easy 
matter, for I often waited months for a particular part 
I needed. My friends all remembered me, and looked 
out for figures. I remember, in the rhyme, " One, two, 
buckle my shoe," when I came to " Eleven, twelve, toil 
and delve," I could find nothing that was suited for it. 
At last I found a card, of some children playing on the 
sea-shore. I put two rhymes on a page, except when 
they were long. Now, I did not think that the book 
would be very satisfactory without the words ; so I 
printed in the rhyme with water-colors. I soon found 
that red and blue were the best to work with. It was 
rather hard to use a brush on the muslin, for, unless great 
care was taken, the letters would be dauby. Tlie words 
are printed right in with the picture, around it, and all 
sides of it. 

"Climbing up the Golden Stairs" was very popular at 
that time, so here I used my darky cards. I illustrated 
the first verse. The " golden stairs " are pieces of gilt 
paper, pasted in like steps, which go up to the top of the 
page. One of the darkies is stepping up, playing on a 
tambourine. A little fellow is falhng off the last step. 
He looks exceedingly surprised; while "Aunt Dinah" 
is traveling slowly and surely upward. The "Dude" is 
as dudish as one could wish, while " Old Peter " is ready 
to hand you "the ticket," which happens to be a pass on 
the D. L. and W. R. R., over " Hoboken Ferry." I had 
such a time to find any " half a dollar," but a friend pro- 
cured a pictured one from a bank-book, which " Sambo " 
offers in his outstretched hand. At last, last winter I 
finished it, and had it bound with a dark red, flexible 
cover. I named it " Pluckings from Mother Goose, by 
One of Her Goslings," and I dedicated it to my Uttle 
sister. Nan. and her large darky doll, "TopS)'." 

We children enjoy you so much, and never get tired 
of reading over the old stories. I wish that Mrs. Dodge 
would write us another story. Hers are so enjoyable. 
We all liked the story that has just finished, "A Bit of 
Color," and agree that " Betty" must have been a lovely 
girl ; one we should like to know. 

The town of Dunmore is two miles from Scranton. 
We have two different lines of electric cars running into 
the town, wliich make it seem very near to Scranton. 
Our ugly-looking culm piles are being utilized as 
"plants" for the making of electricity. When we go 
away, and see the " horse-cars," they seem very much 
"behind the times." 

I would like to know whether any one else tried the 
" Mother Goose " scrap-book, and with w-hat success. 

Well, good-bye, dear St. Nicholas, and with many 
wishes for a long and happy life to you, I am, 

Vour sincere friend, Helen M . 

Alameda, Cal. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I would like to write a letter 
to my dear and esteemed friend, St. Nicholas, hoping 
that its constant readers may see this in the " Letter- 
box." I am a man near fifty-eight years old, and its 
readers may not think a man of my age should write a 
letter to a magazine of its class. I like the story of 
"Grandpapa's Coat," and " Laetitia and the Redcoats," 
which we understand to be the British of those times. 
I shall always esteem it as my home friend. I have 
several volumes and will have them bound. I remain. 
Your constant reader, Josephus P . 

P. S. — If proper, place this letter in "Letter-box." 
I enjoyed the two stories above, and could n't help 
reading them over and over again. 


Lakeside, Lake O.vtario, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas: We — a family of six — are 
spending the four summer months on the shore of 
beautiful blue Ontario. It is a quiet place, about forty 
miles from Niagara Falls, with a dozen or so cottages, 
and a low, rambling hotel among the trees. 

My mother, sister, and myself are very fond of walking, 
and take long tramps, seeing the country and the people, 
which latter we often find amusing. Our longest tramp 
was to Albion, a town ten miles away, and back the same 
day. We were only three and a half hours going in, but 
longer coming back. 

We went one day to see an old lady who still spins 
and weaves her own linen and cotton. She was im- 
mensely amused to learn where we lived, and said, " To 
think o' comin' all the way from Washington, to go to 
the mouth o' Johnson's Creek ! You must ha' been hard 
up ! " She thought the President lives in the Capitol. 

Another old lady told Mother she had never been away 
from the farm a day since she was married, but added, 
proudly, that she " was born south of here." Inquiry 
revealed the fact that she " had been born on a farm two 
miles south of here," and only left it for her present 

We have found several odd localisms, one of which is, 
" quite a few," meaning a large number, and another, 
" right smart and away of a walk," means a long distance. 

In June, I made a study of tadpoles, putting several into 
an improvised aquarium. They were almost black, about 
an inch long, and it was very interesting to see first the 
hind legs come out, then the fore legs, and, finally, the tail 
dwindle to nothing. At that stage they were brown, with 
dark spots, and barely half an inch long. I let them go, 
and they hopped round the road and fields. Their com- 
rades in the little pond had all developed, and were 
likewise hopping in the fields. 

Now, a few weeks ago, as I was w^atching the odd 
water-animals there, I saw two gray-green tadpoles, or 
pollywogs, nearly three inches long, with undeveloped 
legs. And, recently, a brilliant green froglet, about an 
inch and a half long, has come up to greet me. Can any 
country boy or girl tell me whether the smaller ones were 
toads? And which is the correct name — tadpoles or 
pollywogs ? 

If I have made my letter too long, dear St. Nicholas, 
as I fear, could you please find room for the lafet part ? 
I was going to write to " Jack-in-the-Pulpit," and ask 
him about the " tads," but he seemed to be taking a 
vacation with the rest of his congregation. 

It is needless to tell you how much you are enjoyed, 
from Grandpa to the youngest. With best wishes for 
St. Nicholas, from Edith F. K . 

Orange, N. J. 

Dear St. Nicholas : We have taken your charming 
magazine for seven or eight years, since I was only four 
years old. That was while we were in Germany. How 
glad we were to see it every month, and how we did 
enjoy " Lord Fauntleroy"! Some of our German and 
English friends enjoyed the magazine, too, very much, 
and since we came back we sometimes send it over to 
Munich. I studied drawing there, and I hope, some 
day, to be able to illustrate for dear St. Nicholas. 

This spring we set a hen on ducks' eggs ; only one 
came out, and the mother took care of it as long as she 
was shut up in a coop. When the mother was let out, 
she left her little duck of three weeks. Another hen, 
with seven chickens, at once went to the little duck's 
coop and took care of it at night, and took it about with 
her family all day. We thought she was so kind, but to 
our surprise, after ten days, when she had taught the 
duck to look after her chickens, she left them to the 
entire care of the little orphan nurse. We found that it 



was ihe duck that deserved praise, for, although she is 
full-grown now, she never goes around with the other 
ducks, but slill takes care of these now large chickens, 
and sleeps in their coop at night. Is that not a remark- 
able duck ? 

Your devoted reader, G. B. C . 

having been in danger so much as she minded her hair 
being burned off. Now, this is all I remember. So, 

I remain, your affectionate reader, 

Klizabeth S . 

St. Paul, Minn. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I wonder if any of your little 
readers ever had such a nice present as mine on my 
ninth birthday, — a full set of St. Nicholas, hand- 
somely bound ! That was a year ago, and I think there 
has not been a day since when they have not been used 
by my brother or myself. It would be hard to tell what 
we like best. We like it all. 

I live fourteen hundred miles from my grandma's and 
grandpa's, uncles' and aunties', but I go to see them nearly 
every year. The boys and girls have great fun there in 
the winter-time. We never think of staying in the house 
here because it is cold. If we have an ice palace this 
winter, I will send any of your subscribers, who will 
send me a stamp, a good picture of the palace. 

I hope to take you as long as I live, and then leave 
you to my children. 

Truly your friend, MARION W . 

Constantinople, Turkey. 

Dear St. Nicholas : .V little while ago I went to a 
Greek christening, and I thought that perhaps you would 
like to hear about it. Sometimes it takes place in a 
house and sometimes m a church. The one I saw was 
in the house. This is the w.iy it was done : 

First, two priests came in with a man, who carried a 
large metal thing on his back which looked something 
like a b,-ith. This was the font. He put it down in the 
middle of the room and filled it with warm water and 
oil. While he was doing this, the priests let down their 
hair and put on their robes. Then one took the baby, 
which was quite naked, and dipped it three limes in the 
font, saying prayers at the same time. After that it was 
taken out and put into a lot of clean, new linen and given 
to the godfather, who walked three limes round the 
font with the child in his arms, while the priests scat- 
tered incense about and said some more prayers. Then 
the mother took the baby and bound it up tightly in long 
bands, tied a little muslin cap on its head, and put it to 
bed. At the beginnin;; each guest received a lighted 
candle to hold ; and when it was over they gave every 
one a little piece of money which had a hole in it and a 
piece of blue and white ribbon tied to it. You are ex- 
pected to pin this upon your dress till you go away. 
They gave the guests sweets. Sometimes instead of 
money they have little silver crosses. The godfather or 
godmother provides everything — the baby's dress and 
clothes, the sweets and crosses, and also gives the baby 
a present. The candles are rather dangerous, xs they 
give them to little children as well as grown people. A 
little child behind me burned off some of her front hair. 
She did not burn very much off, as I caught sight of her 
just in time, and I told the mother, who was very much 
disgusted. But she did not seem to mind the child's 

Mardin, Turkey in Asia. 
My Dear St. Nicholas: I am twelve years old, and 
have taken you for three years, and enjoy you very much. 
To get to me, you have to ride on horseback six hundred 
miles, for the post is brought by horses from Samsoon.on 
the Black Sea, to Mardin, and takes them from nine to 
ten days. From where our houses stand, we can see 
the plain of Mesopotamia stretching away to the south, 
as far as the eye can reach, and hundreds of miles far- 
ther. A few months ago a parly of us went down on the 
Clain to a village named Dara — supposed to have been 
uill by Darius, the great king. It is all in ruins now. 
We saw the remains of immense buildings. One was 
said to have been the palace of the king. Another was 
entirely underground. It is thought it was a prison. 
There was the ruin of a reservoir large enough to supply 
the whole city with water during a long siege. The city 
was surrounded by a great wall, high and wide, and out- 
side of the wall was a large moat. Right through the 
city is the bed of a large river, which is now but a small 
stream. Across it is a bridge that has lasted to this time. 
It has two tracks, as if they were worn by chariot wheels. 
On the tops ofmany of the ruins were storks" nests. There 
is a small village there now. The people that live in it 
are all Moslems. It took us — or rather we took — two 
days to ride there; it is only eighteen miles from here. 
But we went out for a good time, and did not hurry. 
I have an .Xrabian colt, only two years old, that I ride 
nearly every day ; his name, in Arabic, is " Karrumful," 
meaning Clirves. My sister Minnie, four years younger 
than myself, has a little white Bagdad donkey named 
" Filfil," meaning Pepper. 

I^st you get tired of me, I will bid you good-bye for 
this time, always wishing, dear St. Nicholas, the best 
of success. I am ever your true friend, 

Nellie E. T . 

We thank the young friends whose names here follow 
for pleasant letters received from them : Eunice O., Ella 
G. S., Blanche Keat, John D. M., Adele and Jessie, 
Alice Putnam, Marion Clothier, May N. H., Marguerite 
B., Gertrude C. P., Freddy R., Marion E. S.. " Evie," 
Ernestine Bobbins, Anna FitzGerald, Allan Moorfield, 
C. L. Darling, Frank D. C, Sacka de T. Jones, Maria 
de T. Jones, .-Mlerton Cushman Crane, Daisy A. Sylla, 
K. B , Lola Barrows, Fannie L. H., Matchie Willing- 
ham, Etta Levy, Lillie Jacobs, Kathleen Howard, Mabel 
Maynard, Patty Gregg, P. L. D., Isabel C, W. Palmer, 
Olive Knibbs, L. L. W., Alta Fellows and Ruth Myers, 
" Ethel." Nora Walker, E. C. Wood, Mary B. Tartt, Marie 
Buchanan, Sadie F., Lionel Ilein, Kate J., .^nna N. H., 
Eloise and Lucienne, Maude D., Daisy S., Lizzie W. 
Leary, Hattie S. Fitch, R. M. and A. F., Bessie Long- 
bridge, Mary Caldwell, Ravmond Buck, Maud C. Max- 



Rhomboid. Across: i. Porte. 2. Harms. 3. Games. 

4. Peris. 5. Tenor. 

Pi. 'T is the time 

Wlien the chime 
Of the season's choral band is ringing out. 
SmoI<y brightness fills the air, 
For the light winds everywhere 
Censers full of flowery embers swing about. 
There is sweetness that oppresses, 
As a tender parting blesses ; 
There 's a softened glow of beauty, 
.\s when Love is wreathing Duty ; 
There are melodies that seem 
Weaving past and future into one fair dream. 
Lucy Larcom, " The Indian Summer." 
Quadruple Acrostic. First row, demeans; second, 
oversee ; fifth, accuses ; sixth, leeside. Cross-words : 
I. Dorsal. 2. Evince. 3. Menace. 4. Erebus. 5. Assisi. 
6. Needed. 7. Setose. 

Word-square, i. Doses. 2. Obole. 3. Solid. 4. Eliza. 

5. Sedan. Charade. Whole-some. 

Numerical E.vigma. 

There 's not a flower on all the hills, 
The frost is on the pane. 
Illustrated Acrostic. Bryant. Cross-words : 
I. caBbage. 2. haRness. 3. toYshop. 4. crAvats. 

5. caNteen. 6. buTtons. Riddle. Pillow. 

Diagonal Puzzle. Thomson, i. Tempest. 2.tHroned. 
3. moOrish. 4. diaMond. 5. modeSty. 6. kingdOm. 

7. ruffiaN. 

Broken Words. Thanksgiving, Old Homestead. 
I. Turn Over. 2. Hire Ling. 3. Anti Dote. 4. Night 
Hawk. 5. Keels On. 6. Sides Man. 7. Gods End. 

8. Inter Scribe, g. Vesper Tine. 10. Imp End. 11. Not 
Able. 12. Glad Den. 

Double Acrostic. Primals, Capratina ; finals, 
Dindymene. Cross-words : I. CarotiD. 2. .\lfierl. 
3. PenguiN. 4. RumoreD. 5. AbilitY. 6. TransoM. 
7. ImpingE. 8. NankeeN. 9. .'\ndantE. 
Proverb Puzzle. 

May good digestion wait on appetite, 
-■^nd health on both. 

To our Puzzlers : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th 
of each month, and should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East 
Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th, from 
Arthur Gride — Paul Reese — Maude E. Palmer — J. Russell Davis — Pearl F. Stevens — A Family Affair — 
Jamie and Mamma — Mamma, .Aunt Martha, and Sharley — Nellie L. Howes — Maxie and Jackspar — " Wit and 
Humor" — Blanche and Fred — Helen C. McCleary — Jo and I — Henry Guilford — Ida C. Thallon — Mathilde, 
Ida, and Alice. 

Answers to Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th. from J. Norman 
Carpenter, i — L. T., i — Emma Sydney, S — .Arthur B. Lawrence, 4 — M. E. W., 1 — Clara and Emma, i — M. 
H., I — Papa and Honora, I — Susy I. Myers, 2 — May Cadwallader, I — Guy H. Purdy, 3 — Sadie and 
Mary F., 2 — M. H. V., 5 — Kitty, Bessie, and Eugene. 3 — R. M. and A. F., i — Elsie Rosenbaum, 2 — 
" Wamba, Prince Charming, and Molly Bawn," 5 — John W. Frothingham,Jr.,4 — " Karl and Queen Elizabeth," 8 — 
Gita and Pink, 9 — Clara and O. , 4 — Charlie Rata and Ernie Sharp, 4 — " We Two," 8 — B. F. R.,9 — Sissie Hun- 
ter, 3 — Marion S. Dumont, 2 — J. M. Wright, 5 — "May and 79," 8 — Irvin V. G. Gillis, 10 — Albert E. Clay, 
10 — "AH of Us," 3 — Jim, Tom, and Charlie, 10 — Efiie K. Talboys, 7 — Carrie Holzman, 2 — Gert and Fan, 6-^ 
G. Goldfrank, 7 — Adrienne Forrester, 5 — Nagrom, 3 — Katie Guthrie, 3 — Eleulhera Smith, 5 — .A. A. Smith, i — 
Three American Readers, 4 — Kendrick Family, i — No Name, Conn., 5 — A. W. Bartlett, I — G. Harwood, 6. 


I. In muscular. 2. Reverence. 3. Songs or tunes. 

4. A wooden instrument used for cleaning flax. 5. Gold 
coins of the United States. 6. To become unconscious. 
7. To discover. F. s. F. 


The letters in each of the following thirteen groups 
may be transposed so as to form one word. When these 
are rightly guessed they will answer to the following 
definitions: i. Relating to color. 2. Half a poetic verse. 
3. -A name for buttercups, given them by Pliny, because 
the aquatic species grow where frogs abound. 4. Just. 

5. Benumbed. 6. Shaped like a top. 7. The summer 

solstice, June 21. 8. Mineral pitch. 9. Layers of earth 
lying under other layers. 10. The more volatile parts of 
substances, separated by solvents. 11. Accused. 12. The 
goddess of discord. 13. The utmost point. 

1. I match roc. 

2. She hit mic. 

3. I run clan U. 

4. A limp rat. I. 

5. Fed, I set up. 

6. I run at Bet. 

7. Rimm mused. 
S. Put a sham L. 
9. As tar tubs. 

10. I rust cent. 

11. Dime peach. 

12. Cari is odd. 

13. Extry time. 

When the above letters have been rightly transposed, 
and the words placed one below the other, the primals 
will spell a festal time, and the finals will spell an anni- 
versary of the Church of England, held on the 2Sth of 
December. f. s. f. 




'> ■ 

vi\ jmcuuch in iV^- .ilvno lUuvir.ition may 
be V a »or\1 of h\T letters. When these sire 

ri^ i anil placcvl one below the other, in the 

orvlei licie };ht:h. the letters fn>m I to Jo t.i> indicatevl in 
the »>.w.>mr>an\-ing iliagTan*^ *'" *t<ll 'he name of an 
eniinenl scnolar anvi Jivine who wa> liorii IVccmber i?. 

Across; i. In Chinaman. 2. A pert to«n>nian. 5. 
An old »-orvl meanini; the crown of the head. 4. The 
Indian twme for a lake. 5. .\ prize given at^ H.'ir\-arJ 
I'nix-ersitv. 6, A masculine nickname. 7. In l,~hinaman. 

iVnvxwvKl*: I. In Chinaman. J. .\ capsule of a 
plant. _v A printer's mark showing that something 
js interlmcvl. 4. Men enrviUe^l for military discipline. 
5. .\ librous puHiuct of Braril. 6. The first half of a 
w-ord meanini; «rv warm. 7. In Chinaman. 

H. AMI B, 

novnij-; vrsvi. acrostic. 

.\l,t of the cross-words are of cqu-il length. When 
they ha\-c been rightly guessed and plaocvt one below the 

I , »n the order here gi\Tn. the 

l.i»t row of letters. re.iding up- 

war<l, « ill S|K-11 si>mclhini; often 

read " "' ' ' ■ : the 

riiw ticxl to t ^< ar\l, 

will v|>ell some -:,, aI this 

timo ot the year. 

Ck>>ss woRHS: I. Flourishing. 2. A 
c\>miviny of sinjjcrs. 3. A nyyv with a 
n^x^se. 4. The " W iiard of the North." 
5. Baffles, b. Small, insect-eating mani- 
m.ils. 7. .\ great artery of the body. 8, 
.K maxim or aphorism. 9- Silica. 


YaINISAR sklapNCt dole, 
Krarubly strigtel. 
Charm mosce ni. a dydum 1 
Kijvil Kiss slirett ; 
I' ■' ' K-s reh dribsc-daim yam, 
^ 1- wiht seros stewe; 

N : Ami fo wen-monw yha, 
Knth hot scwi-a fo delgon hcwta, 
Tenh elh selentin fo lall : 
Hent teh rawzid thmon fo lal ; 
Neih het seridfie swogl, d.m enth 
Cashslrim scome ot hater aniga. 


The di.agi->nals, from the upix-r left hand corner to the 
lower rigtii-hand corner, spell the surname of a famous 
musician Ivrn in 1 7^6. 

CKviss-woRr>s : i. Central, a. .\ botly of .tboul li\« 
hundreil soldiers. %. .\n enchanter. 4. .\ country of 
North .\merica. 5. To expand. 6. .\ parcel. 







Vol. XVII. 

JANUARY, 1890. 

Copyright, 1889, by The Centiry Co. All rights reserved. 

No. 3, 

By Harriet Prescott Spofford. 

IGH in the mountain.s where we went 

To have our Christmas among the snows, 
The far white slopes stretched up the sky 

Where the young moon sank and the great stars rose ; 
And with every gust of the long slow wind 

The forests of fir from root to crown 
Made murmuring music, and softly shook 

A cloud of sifted silver down. 
But round the hearth of the room within, 

Like the cherub throng of some heavenly choir, 
The children clustered, and held their breath 

While their father hghted the yule-log fire. 

The little flames crackled and crisped and curled. 
And sweet were the cries from the happy crew, 

.As higher and higher the blue smoke twirled, 
And then what a blaze the great log threw, 




What a glory swept up the chimney shaft. 

And vanished into the vast night-blue ! 
And the raftei^ stained out of the gloom ' 

With all their festooning apple-strings, 
With the silver skin of their onion-stalks, 

Their crook-necked squash, and their herby 
And tlie gleam glanced high on the powder- 

And the king's-arm flung back a startled light, 

Thank God for Christmas I" the father said, 
.\nd the mother, dropping her needles, turned, 

Thank God for Christmas, for roof, for fire ! " 
She answered him, and the yule-log burned. 

On roared the billowy flames ; the sparks 
In shining showers up the darkness whirled ; 

.\nd the sap on the great ends stood like beads, 
And bubbled and simmered and hummed and 


iHt,K LHjHlbU IHt ^ L Lt-L'Jt. hlKt.. 

And the face of the clock was like the moon 
Red in the mists of the August night. 

While all the depth of the dusky room 

Was full of the firelight's blush and bloom. 

The grandame's hair like the aureole 
Of any saint in a picture showed. 

And a wreath of roses about her there 
The frolickintj children's faces slow-ed. 

.\nd its thin note quavered and swelled and 
And tuned and twittered and rippled along. 

■ The worm is dying," the children cried. 
" Oh, hush! " said the grandame; " you do it 

wrong, — " 
And they bent to listen, all eager-eyed, — 
" Hush, 't is the yule-log singing his song ! " 



And the place with a sudden warble rang 
And this is the song the yule-log sang : 

" Far in forest glades I grew, 
Fed on draughts of noontide dew ; 
Passed the spotted snake's low lair, 
Passed the browsing of the bear. 
Fresher branches thrust each year, 
Passed the antler of the deer, 
Till space and sun and solitude 
Made me king of all the wood. 

" Then, my lower branches laid 
In a mighty depth of shade. 
Glad my tops the sun descried 
Coursing up the great earth's side. 
Knew the cloud's phantasmal forms, 
Wrestled with a thousand storms, 
Proudly bore victorious scars. 
And measured lances with the stars ! 

" Twice a hundred years the snow 
Her white and glimmering veils did throw 
Round me ; moonbeams touched my spires 
With a light of frosty fires ; 
Knee-deep in the summer fern 
Twice a hundred years return, 
And into leaf my full plumes burst 
Green as when they bourgeoned first. 

" Spices of the sun-soaked wood 
Rose about me where I stood ; 
Gums their richest resin cast 
On every wind that wandered past ; 
Blossoms shed their petals sweet 
In balmy drifts about my feet ; 
Berried fragrance filled the gloom, 
And the wild grape's ambrosial bloom. 

" Here the bee went blundering by 
Honey-drunk, the butterfly 
Flittered, — ah, what songs I heard 
Shrilling from the building bird ! 
How all little life did house 
Securely in my sheltering boughs 
That drew the green walls close when there 
The great hawk hung in upper air ! 

" Still the dawn, the star-flame old. 
That steeped me through and through, I 

The gladness wrought in every root 
While the wood-thrush blew his flute, 
And music ordering all my art 
With sorrow fit to break the heart 
When the summer night was still 
And far off mourned the whippoorwill. 

" Now, my wealth of centuried hours, — 
Memory of summer showers. 
Bloom and song and leaf and wing, — 
Upon this yule-tide hearth I fling. 
All the life that filled my year 
I bring back to the Giver here, 
Burning gladly in His name 
The hoarded sunshine of my flame ! " 

And the children listened, but all was still ; 

A core of heat was the yule-log's heart. 
And into the ashes the live coals dropped 

Like rubies that flash and break apart ; 
And the shadows skimmed up the darkening 

And the wind brought a clamor of music near. 

And the stars themselves bent down to hear. 

While out in the valley far below 
The peal of the Christmas-bells rang clear. 


Bv XokA Perkv. 

Chapter IV. 

spending the first va- 
cation of the autumn 
with her " dear May," 
as she had been in 


the habit of caHing 
May since the inti- 
macy that had sprung up between them. 

The girls who lived at a distance from Hill-- 
side generally remained at the seminary through 
the shorter vacations. Cathy Bond's home was 
two days' journey from the school. The Macy 
sisters and Susy Morris also lived at a distance, 
and the four hitherto had spent their vacations 
together at the seminary. Cathy's invitation 
had come about in this way : 

" I 'm glad I don't have to spend my vaca- 
tions at the seminary, as some of the girls do," 
May had happened to say one day to her father. 
Mrs. Bartlett, who was present, had looked up 
and remarked quickly : 

'• It must be ver)' forlorn for them." And 
when May had answered with emphasis, " It 
is forlorn," Mrs. Bartlett had surprised her by 
saying : 

" Why don't you invite one of them to spend 
the week wnth you ? " 

•' But — but," Mav stammered, " Papa does n't 
like it." 

" Papa does n't like what ? " then inquired 
Mr. Bartlett. waking up from his absent-mind- 

edness. May explained, and related how she 
had begged for this privilege of hospitality be- 
fore, only to be told that it could n't be. Her 
father laughed at the recital, and then astonished 
her by this speech : 

" Oh, well, that was last year ! I could n't 
have two giddy young things turned loose in 
the house then ; I should have been totally 
neglected, if not trampled upon. Now, you 
.see, I 've somebody to be company for me, 
while you neglect me." 

" Oh, Papa ! do you mean, that now — " 

"Yes; now, if you like," nodding and smil- 
ing at her. 

" And I hope," said Mrs. Bartlett, smihng 
also, " that you will invite that pretty, bright- 
faced Cathy Bond." 

Cathy Bond ! The color in May's cheeks 
and her embarrassed look showed Mrs. Bart- 
lett that something was amiss, and she imme- 
diately remarked : 

" Of course it makes no difference to me, my 
dear, which of your friends you invite, but I re- 
membered this one particularly, and I thought 
her your favorite, from seeing her more with )ou 
than the others." 

" Oh, yes ; yes, she is," was May's rather 
confused reply. 

And this is the way it came about that Cathy 
spent the vacation with her " dear May." 

" After she has talked as she has, I should n't 
think she 'd feel much like going there to visit," 
Joanna exclaimed indignantly to her sister Elsie. 



And at last something of this kind was said to 
Cathy herself, who retorted that she was going 
to visit May at May's invitation, and not the step- 
mother. Perhajjs it was this last sharp word 
that sharpened Cathy's temper, and sent her on 
her visit with her prejudices more aUve than ever. 

" That pretty, bright-faced girl," Mrs. Bart- 
lett had said; and Cathy was all that, — pretty 
and bright-faced; but when she sat at table 
that first night of her visit, Mrs. Bartlett felt a 
vague sense of disappointment in her. She 
had seen her only a moment or two at different 
times when she had called upon May, and then 
her pretriness and brightness had impressed Mrs. 
Bartlett very favorably. But as she sat at table, 
there was a sort of forward smartness, a too self- 
possessed, grown-up-ish air in what she said and 
did, to suit fasridious, well-bred people. 

" Oh, dear," thought Mrs. Bartlett, '• what a 
pity! — and such a nice-looking girl," and then, 
" perhaps this is one reason why May has such 
a forbidding way with her." 

And while these thoughts were passing 
through Mrs. Bartlett's mind, Cathy with her 
sharpened temper was pluming herself upon 
her manners, and upon taking a stand against 
the stepmother. " I shall be polite," she had 
said to herself; "but I shall not be sweet and 
cordial, and I shall let them see that May has 
a real, independent friend." 

Mr. Bardett who at first had begun to trj- 
and make '• the litde girl," as he called her, feel 
comfortable by saying pleasant, kind things to 
her, soon gave up his endeavor, and as he did 
so, he looked at her with one of his queer 
satirical expressions. May caught the look and 
grew hot, then cold. She knew perfectly what 
it meant — that he was half-displeased, and half- 
amused. What she did not know, was that he 
was thinking just then, '■ What in the world led 
Margaret to suggest that piece of trumisery, as 
a visitor for May?" But as he ceased his en- 
deavors to make "the litde giri comfortable," 
another idea flashed into his mind. It would be 
a saving grace to let May see, as he could make 
her see, what a second-rate simpleton — for so 
he judged then — this friend was. The idea 
was too tempting not to be acted upon, and 
suddenly addressing her with a deference he 
might have shown to an older person, he drew 

the girl on to display — as she supposed — her 
knowledge and brilliancy. Instead, however, 
of these qualities, Cathy only displayed her 
fooUshness and forwardness, behaving in fact in 
a very second-rate manner indeed. " Oh," 
thought poor May, " I would n't have believed 
that Cathy could go on like this. She can be 
so sensible, .^nd Papa — Papa is too bad." 

She looked appeahngly at him, but he did 
not notice her. She then tried to stop Cathy 
b)- asking her a question about school matters. 
But Cathy would not be stopped. Still she 
rattled on, perking up her little chin, and laugh- 
ing, until May began to feel very much ashamed, 
and to wish that something would happen, or 


somebody would come to the rescue. And some- 
bod}- did come to the rescue ; and this somebody 
was — the stepmother. 

Mrs. Bardett had been observant of every- 
thing — of her husband's "mischief," as she 
termed it, of Cathy's silliness, and of May's 

" What possesses Edward," she thought, " to 
draw out that child's absurdities like this ? " And 
then she echoed May's thought, '• It is too bad 
of him." But, like May, she did n't understand 
his motive. Yet if she had understood, I think 
she would have done the same thing. And this 




is what she did. An she saw her husband, with 
that look of mischief on hi.s face, about to ad- 
dress Miss Cathy again, she turned to him with a 
sudden question relating to an important matter 
in which he was interested. His attention once 
caught, she held it, though there was an amused 
sparkle in his eyes that showed he was perfectly 
well aware of his wife's purpose. Hut the pur- 
pose was served, and May drew a sigh of relief 
But Cathy was not so well pleased to be thus 
robbed of what she considered such flattering 

interested in a book, from which he now and 
then read passages to his wife. He took not 
the slightest notice of " the children," as he 
would have called them. Disaj)pointed by this 
neglect, Cathy looked about her for some 
ment, and as she saw the open piano in the 
further comer of the large room, she whispered 
to May that they might try one of their duets. 
" Oh, no, no, not now ; we '11 try to-morrow," 
poor May whispered back. But Cathy could 
not or would not understand, and saying care- 


.^' w. 




' & 


attention, and responded rather absently to 
May's low-voiced attempts to talk with her; 
and, after they had left the table, when Ma\- 
tried to draw her into her own special sanctum 
— a charming room full of books and pictures 
and games — Cathy said decidedly : 

" Oh, let 's go into the parlor: I think it "s so 
pleasant where there 's an open fire." 

But if she fancied she was again to receive 
the attention that had so flattered her, she was 
mistaken. Mr. Bartlett became absorbingly 

lessly, " Well, let me look at the music," led the 
way to the instrument. Once there, she did not 
content herself with looking; she must just try 
whether she could remember this or that, she had 
taken for a lesson. " This or that " turned out 
to be a few bars of various compositions, not of 
the highest order, and played without particular 
skill. May stole a glance down the room at her 
father. Mr. Bartlett was fond of music, and had 
some knowledge of it, and a cultivated taste. May 
saw him twist his mouth into a comical smile. 



20 I 

and shake his head ruefully as he looked at 

" Come, let us play ' Halma ' ; I have a new 
board," she whispered to Cathy. 

But Cathy just then struck into a gay waltz, 
and banged away with all her might. As she 
played the last bars, Mrs. Bartlett approached. 

" That was one of the Strauss waltzes, was n't 
it ? " she asked Cathy politely ; and then she 
began to speak of the great Peace Jubilee in 
Boston, when Johann Strauss had come all the 
way from Austria to play, and to lead the great 
orchestra in the colosseum that was erected for 
the jubilee. 

" I was about your age then," she said, look- 
ing at Cathy, " and I never had had such a 
perfectly lovely time as I had then." As she 
went on describing that fairy-like structure, 
with its glass roof, covering so many acres, 
and the bands from England and Germany and 
France and Austria and Ireland, that came over 
to America to play their own music in celebra- 
tion of the peace of the world. May leaned for- 
ward, spell-bound by the description and all 
it brought before her, and even Cathy forgot 
herself for the time. After this, Mr. Bartlett 
called out : 

" Margaret, play something for us ; " and 
Margaret played some beautiful selections from 
Schumann and Beethoven, and then, at the 
last, she sang a good-night song by Robert 
Franz ; and with the concluding words, " Good- 
night, good-night," she rose, smiling, from her 
seat, and as at that instant the little clock on 
the mantel struck half-past nine. May knew 
that it was time to go to bed, and rose also, 
expecting Cathy to follow her example; but 
Cathy hung back, and began to speak. 

" Do you know any waltzes that you could 
play for us to dance, Mrs. Bartlett ? " she 
asked. Before Mrs. Bartlett could reply, Mr. 
Bartlett had come forward, and was saying, 
" Good-night, children," and in the next mo- 
ment he was asking his wife to play a Hun- 
garian march for him. 

May was only too glad to get away. Once 
upstairs by themselves, Cathy would be herself 
again, she reasoned. But there were several 
things rankling in Cathy's mind, not the least 
of which was that " Good-night, children" and 
Vol. XVII.— 23. 

when May, with a little skip of relief, entered 
the chamber, and said cheerfully : 

" I don't feel a bit sleepy ; do you, Cathy ? " 
Cathy answered sharply : 

" I ? No ; I could have waltzed for half 
an hour." 

The color flew to May's face. 

" But, Cathy, it is half-past nine, half an hour 
later than I usually go to bed, and you told me 
that nine was the seminary hour." 

" Well, this is n't the seminary. I did n't 
expect to visit a school," sarcastically. 

May had to remember that Cathy was her 
guest, and that she must be poHte to her, so 
she said : 

"I 'm so sorry, Cathy. But — she — will play 
for us to dance to-morrow, I dare say." 

" ' She ' — oh, that 's what you call her ? I ' ve 
wondered what it was ! What do you call her 
when you speak to her ? " 

"I — I — don't say anything. I wait until 
she is looking at me. I — " 

Cathy went off into a giggle. 

" Oh, it 's too funny. I must tell the girls 
when I get back that you only speak of her as 
' she,' and wait until she looks at you before — " 

" Oh, don't, Cathy." 

" Don't what ? " 

" Don't make fun — like that — to the girls." 

" Well, I should just like to know what has 
come over you, May Bartlett; but I know well 
enough. She has got the upper hand of you 
in your own home, that 's clear." 

The color in May's face deepened. 

" How can you talk so foolishly, Cathy ? " 

" I 'm not talking foolishly. I saw it at the 
very first, when we were at the tea-table. \\'hat 
did she do when your father was so nice and 
pleasant to me but stop him and make him talk 
to her ! And then she would n't let him come 
near us in the parlor, but came herself after 
a while, and told us stories about that old ju- 
bilee. I 've heard my mother tell about it a 
hundred times." 

" Oh, Cathy ! you don't know — " 

May stopped. She could n't tell Cathy that 
she had been saved twice : once from making 
herself ridiculous, and again from being an 
annoyance, by — yes — by the stepmother. And 
it was the stepmother who had encouraged her 




visit, who had spoken of her as pretty and 
bright-faced, when Cathy had been so bitter 
against her, and, worst of all, at the very time 
when she had been really doing her a kind- 
ness; — but what was it Cathy was saying? 

" I do know one thing. May, that you are 
another girl here at home from what you are at 
school. You don't seem to remember what 
you 've told me about the garden-party, and 
the wagon, and everything. You to tell me not 
to talk to the girls ! " 

May began to feel \exy angry, and luckily verj- 
small too ; the latter feeling prevented the out- 
burst of the former. How could she admonish 
Cathy ? There was a silence for a few minutes, 
while Cathy, with an injured look, made her 
preparations for bed. By and by May said, 
with an effort : 

" She wanted you to come." 

" She wanted me ; " a little rasping laugh, 
and then, " what do you mean by that ? " 

May explained by relating the conversation 
where Mrs. Bartlett had spoken of her so 
pleasantly. The angry lines relaxed a little 
in Cathy's face, and presently she said, easily: 

" Well, it was never my affair, you know. / 
never knew anything about her, except what you 
told me, and I 'm sure I hope she will turn out 
nice, for your sake." 

May struggled with her temper. She felt put 
in the wrong on every side. But even if she 
yielded to the wild impulse within her, what 
could she say ? If Cathy had encouraged her 
to talk against her stepmother, she had likewise 
encouraged Cathy ! 

There was nothing to be said then; and 
nothing to be done, except to listen to Cathy 
with what patience she might ; but Cathy her- 
self presently turned from the subject to some- 
thing else, and a little later, all unkind thoughts 
were lost, for the time, in slumber. 

Ch.apter V. 

" Play for you to dance ? Certainly I will. 
But, May, how would you Uke to invite the 
other girls who are spending their vacation at 
the seminary to join a little partj' here on 
Saturday evening ? " 

" But there are not enough to make a party." 

Mrs. Bartlett smiled. 

"But I said 'join a party.' I thought I 
would invite some of my friends in Boston with 
their young people, if you would like it, and then 
we might have enough for a dancing-party. 
Would you like it ? " 

May looked up. There was something in 
the wistful tone of this " would you like it ? ' 
that made her ashamed of her ungracious hesi- 
tation; yet Cathy's sneering accusation of the 
night before, "you are another girl here at 
home from what you are at school," had been 
rankling in her mind. She must prove herself; 
she must show Cathy that she was the same, 
and so instead of responding at once as she felt, 
with delight at the project, she said after that 
hesitation, in a cold tone : 

" Yes, I should like it verj' well." And then 
Cathy, who was standing by, sprang forward 
and exclaimed : 

" Oh, Mrs. Bartlett, I think it would be just 
lovely, and I 'm sure / shall like it above all 
things ! " 

Again May felt herself put in the wrong and 
misunderstood, and again she had to struggle 
with her temper. This conversation had taken 
place on the .morning after Cathy's arrival, 
which had been upon Friday, the beginning 
of the vacation. The party proposed was for 
the next Saturday. 

"The only thing that troubles me is that I 
have n't a Hght dress to wear — I 've only my 
garnet cashmere here at Hillside," Cathy re- 
marked, when she and May were alone to- 

" Oh, but we are so near of a size you can 
wear one of mine; I have two white wool 
dresses," May answered readily. 

When the dresses were produced and tried 
on, Cathy found that the latest-made dress suited 
her best. 

" But, Cathy, don't you think it is too long ? 
It comes almost to the floor upon you. I am 
taller, you know." 

" Oh, no, 't is n't a bit too long. I like it," 
Cathy replied hastily. And so the matter was 
dismissed, Cathy after removing the dress 
hanging it up in the closet with a pleased air. 
The week sped by very quickly, and for the 
most part smoothly. Cathy evidently enjoyed 




herself, though she found that Mr. Bartlett was 
no longer disposed to treat her as a grown-up 
young lady; indeed, that he took but scant 
notice of her. The long drives, however, in 
the httle village-wagon in the bright early days 
of winter that were hke autumn, the trips to Bos- 
ton, to a matinee performance of " Little Lord 
Fauntleroy," and to visit one or two picture 
galleries, filled the short days to overflowing. 
On several occasions during this time, Cathy 
had said things that had made May exceedingly 
uncomfortable. Once, at the beginning of the 
preparations for the little party, she suddenly 
asked, " Don't you help, when anything of this 
kind is going on ? " 

"Help — how?" May inquired, in a be- 
wildered tone. 

" Why, with the notes of invitation for one 
thing. I always do that part at home." 

" No, I never thought of it. When Aunt 
Mary lived with us I was too young, and she 
left us only two years ago." 

" Well, you do have an easy rime. May, I 
must say," Cathy had responded to this. May 
did not care to ask Cathy for any more of her 
opinions on the subject ; a sense of hurt pride 
was beginning to affect her — to make her draw 
back within herself, and to feel that Cathy was 
going too far. Once she would have told Cathy 
this, would have told anybody who had spoken 
to her in such a fashion ; but now, the con- 
sciousness that she herself had opened the way 
for Cathy to be so free with her silenced her. 

Yet in spite of some annoyances like this, the 
week ran rapidly toward its end, and Saturday 
morning came. Just after luncheon, Mrs. Bart- 
lett said to the girls : 

" Had n't you two girls better try on your 
dresses now, and see if everything is all right ? 
They may need new ruching in the neck, or 
some little changes. I always try on a dress 
after it has n't been worn for a while, before the 
last minute, as we used to say at home." 

May started up readily; Cathy was not so 

" But I 've tried the one I 'm to wear, Mrs. 
Bartlett," she said. 

" Yes, I know — all by yourselves; but don't 
you want to let me see if everything is right ? If 
it is n't, I can let Julie attend to it at once." 

May was already upstairs, and Cathy slowly 
followed her. 

As Mrs. Bartlett entered the chamber, she 
saw her stepdaughter standing arrayed in a very 
pretty white gown, much too short in the skirt. 

" There now, my dear, here is something to 
be done. You have grown so tall, your skirt 
must be lengthened." She busied herself for 
several moments in taking measurements, and 
then turned to Cathy. 

" Why, my dear, you both have made a mis- 
take. This is as much too long for you as the 
one May has on is too short for her ; " and she 
went forward, smilingly, ready to help remedy 
this " mistake." But Cathy stepped back. 

" No, there is no mistake, Mrs. Bartlett. I — 
my party-dress at home is as long as this. I 
hke it." 

"But — with your hair down in a braid, it 
hardly seems to suit you. The skirt is as long as 
mine, I think," Mrs. Bartlett remarked quietly. 

" Oh, well, I shall put my hair up to-night. 
I often do at home," quickly responded Cathy. 
" Besides, the other dress would be short for 
me, too. I 'm nearly as tall as May." 

As she spoke, Cathy walked across the room 
to the mirror, and as she did so the difference 
in height allowed May to look easily over her 
head. Mrs. Bardett caught May's eye at that 
moment, and laughed ! This was very undig- 
nified, no doubt, but Mrs. Bartlett was only an 
older girl herself, and the whole situation had 
suddenly become irresistibly ludicrous to her. 
May, too, in that moment, felt her indignation 
at Cathy change to merriment, and, as Cathy 
wheeled about with a look of questioning, she 
surprised an exchange of glances that both 
mortified and offended her. 

But, with the easy readiness of her greater 
experience, Mrs. Bartlett instantly said : 

" It was so funny, my dear, to see May in 
that ridiculously short skirt overtopping you 
that I had to laugh ; " and then turning briskly 
to May, she treated the matter as of no conse- 
quence by saying : 

" Now, May, if you will come with me to the 
sewing-room, Julie will attend to your skirt." 

The two girls saw little of each other after 
this, until it was time to dress for the evening. 
It was an early party, on account of the young 




jjeople, and May had been occupied with Julie 
most of the afternoon. 

When, therefore, the two met later in the 
day, something of Cathy's irritation had been 
overlaid by other things ; but it had only been 
overlaid, and May knew, by the rather artificial 
manner in which Cathy tried to be cordial and 
natural, that she had not forgotten. Specially 
was this noticeable when May donned the gown 
that Julie had altered. 

" Oh, does n't it look nice, though ! " cried 
Cathy, in a shghdy strained and nervous tone. 

" It does very well," was all that May could 
reply; for in fact the gown did not look par- 
ticularly nice, spite of Julie's efforts. The 
lengthening process showed in the white sur- 
face, and even the broad sash did not conceal 
that the waist also had been a little outgrown. 
Julie, who had been sent in by Mrs. Bartlett 
to assist the girls at their toilets, turned to 
Cathy at last, saying, in her French-English : 

" Now, if Mees Cathy 's ready for me, I 
make her ready." 

Cathy still waited. Then, as if struck by a 
sudden thought, she cried: 

" Oh, May, will you see if I can have some 
of that red kalmia from the green-house instead 
of the daisies? " 

May took the hint — Cathy wanted to get 
rid of her. It was on the stroke of the hour 
for which the guests had been bidden when they 
next met. 

" What can your friend be about ? " Mrs. 
Bartlett asked with some concern as the min- 
utes sped by. May knew no more than her 
stepmother. She only knew that the bunch 
of kalmia had been sent up to Cathy half an 
hour ago. 

" Perhaps you had better run up and see if 
she is waiting for )0U to come for her," Mrs. 
Bartlett then suggested. But just as May 
started, the clock struck eight, and at the same 
time the door-bell rang. At that very moment 
a white vision appeared on the parlor threshold. 
It was a slender young lady in a white dress, 
■with her dark hair piled in a crown-like coil 
upon the top of her head. At the neck, a 
cluster of scarlet flowers began, and, widening 
out in a bright mass of color, drooped in long 
sprays to the waist-line. Both May and her 

stepmother looked at this vision at first with 
surprise. Was it a guest whose arrival they 
had not heard? The white vision stepped 
forward; the red mouth above the red flowers 

" Why, Cathy I " cried May. Yes, it was 
Cathy. In her long, white dress, with her 
dusky hair gathered up, and all those scarlet 
kalmias, she looked like a young lady, and a 
very pretty one, it must be confessed. Cathy 
was (juite aware of the effect that she produced. 
She saw surprised admiration in May's glance. 
It was not so easy to read Mrs. Bartlett's face, 
but in the smile of recognition Miss Cathy saw 
no sign of disapproval. 

The ring at the door-bell was that of the little 
party from the seminary. When they came 
into the parlor, Joanna, as the eldest of the 
three, advanced first, Elsie and Susy shyly fol- 
lowing. .'Ml three were dressed somewhat alike, 
in different shades of dark-blue cashmere. If, 
as they observed the white-robed figures before 
them, they might have felt a little shade of 
girlish regret and mortification that they too 
were not so whitely clothed, the warm recep- 
tion that they received from Mrs. Bartlett and 
May went far to reassure them. None of the 
party at first recognized Cathy. When they 
did, Susy forgot her shyness for the moment in 
her astonishment, and cried out in that little soft 
odd voice of hers : 

" Oh, it 's Cathy in a fancy costume — how 
funny ! " 

The rest of the girls laughed — that is, all 
but Cathy; and Susy, noting the vexed expres- 
sion of her face, added : 

" I did n't mean by 'funny' that it was n't 
nice, too." 

The girls laughed again, Cathy joining this 
time. As for Mrs. Bartlett, she thought : 

" What a dear, quaint littie darling it is. If 
only she had been May's visitor! " 

But as the other guests began to arrive, there 
was little opportunit)' to indulge in regrets of 
any kind. The guests were some of them 
strangers to May even: they were old friends 
and acquaintances of Mrs. Bartlett's, with their 
young sisters, or daughters, and their brothers. 

" Oh, is n't it nice to have real partners ! " 
exclaimed Cathy, as she saw the latter enter. 



Joanna, to whom she spoke, laughed, and 
said she thought s/if was real enough whenever 
she had been Cathy's partner. 

"Oh, but you know what I mean — gentle- 
men partners," pettishly responded Cathy; and 
Joanna had responded to this : 

"/call them boys." 

Two violins, a harp, and a comet, in a small 
room leading out of the parlors, made music for 
the dancers. All the girls entered into the 
dancing with great zest, Cathy more than the 
rest, ^\^len May had first recognized her, in 
the long dress and piled-up hair, she had felt 
such a thrill of admiration that all her old be- 
lief and regard, which had been sorely shaken 
within the last few days, revived. In fact, 
Cathy looked so much like a splendid grown- 
up young lady then, that to criticise her seemed 
an impertinence ; and introducing this splendid 
young lady to one and another, May had a feel- 
ing of pride in her, and when she saw with what 
a self-possessed air these introductions were re- 
ceived, she was sure that there was not one of 
those Boston girls who had nicer manners. 

The dancing was in the long wide hall, as 
well as in the parlors. Cathy seemed to prefer 
the hall, and May found herself in the parlor, 
separated from her as the evening went on; 
and now and then she would wonder whether 
Cathy was having a good time. May herself was 
having a delightful rime. She had forgotten all 
about her dress being short in the waist, and 
showing where it had been let down ; she had 
forgotten everything that was disagreeable, in- 
deed, when she suddenly became conscious that 
the music was greatly accelerated in speed, and 
that over and above the music there seemed 
to be a good deal of noise — the sound of 
voices and laughter. 

She was vaguely wondering what it meant, 
when she heard one of the boy strangers from 
town say to another, with a laugh : 

" They 're rushing things out there in the 
hall, are n't they ? " And the other answered : 

" It 's that seminary girl. She 's set them all 
a-going. I saw her speak to the musicians 
just now." 

That seminary girl ! AVho, luho could they 
mean ? Just then the final quadrille change 
was called, and the moment slie was free May 


dashed out into the hall. But the music, which 
had ceased for a second, had struck up again 
into a wild jig tune, and there was Cathy, her 
hair flying, her laugh sounding, leading off down 
the polished floor, almost on a run, to the jig 
tune, with one of the older boys for her partner. 

" Margaret, if you don't stop that little hoy- 
den, I will ! " May here overheard her father 
say. The next instant she saw her stepmother 
walk rapidly past, and in another instant the 
music came to an abrupt close. 

Cathy, in her mad speed, at that instant met 
Mrs. Bartlett face to face as she was leaving 
the music-room. 

" Oh, Mrs. Bartlett," she broke forth, " how 
could you stop our fun ? " 

"Hush, my dear," began Mrs. Bartlett; but 
Cathy, wild mth her fun, as she called it, inter- 
rupted with a pleading and protesting — plead- 
ing for "just one more swing," and protesting 
generally in a foolish, flippant litde manner, full 
of vanity and silliness, wth a notion that she 
was behaving in a very young ladyish style, and 
attracting the admiration of everybody about 
her ; when she was attracting, instead, that very 
unenviable attention which expresses itself in 
astonished stares and questions of: " Who is that 
little hoyden ? " If she had turned, as she stood 
there protesting, she would have seen the mas- 
ter of the house approaching with an ominous 
frown upon his face ; but she did not turn, and 
she only saw the mistress of the house shake her 
head at some one, and then heard her say : 

" Come, Cathy, it is nearly supper time, and 
I want you to go upstairs and let Julie put 
your hair and dress in order." As Mrs. Bart- 
lett said this, she fixed her eyes upon Cathy 
with a perfectly kind, but a compelling gaze, and 
the girl knew that she must obey ; but there 
was in her heart a blind, unreasoning fury as 
she did so. 

May, full of shame and disappointment, 
shrank back into the shadow of the portiere 
near her father, but unseen by him. It was 
then she heard her stepmother say: 

" No, Edward, I could n't let you speak to 
her. You must remember she is only a child 
— a willful, spoiled child, and her head is a 
little turned by her high spirits, and her pret- 
tiness, and the effect she seemed to produce." 



" Margaret, you would find excuses for any- 

" I would certainly find excuses for such a 
mere child as this." 

They moved away together, but May still re- 
mained behind the portiere, thinking, thinking, 
thinking. This was the third time her step- 
mother had shielded Cathy — Cathy, who from 
the start had been against her, had said hard 
things, had had hard thoughts of her, had done 
her best to injure her. But who had encouraged 
Cathy ? Again this question confronted May. 

" May, is it you, my dear ? " 

Somebody was pushing the portiere aside. 
It was her stepmother. 

" Oh, it is you. Will you run up, my dear, 
and see if Cathy is ready to come down. I 
can't think what keeps her so long. It could n't 
have taken Julie more than five minutes to put 
her dress in order." 

As May sped on her errand her thoughts sped 
with her, tormenting her with fears and regrets. 
At the door of her room she paused a moment, 
with tiie fears increasing, for there was a confu- 
sion of voices, Cathy's rising above the others. 

"No; I shall /loi go down again! — to be 
sent away like a baby ! — do you think — ! " 

" Oh, Cathy ! Cathy ! you mi/sf come down ; 
I 've been sent for you," cried May, as she 
entered the room. 

" I shall rw//" 

" How silly you are, Cathy. Of course you '11 
go down." 

It was Joanna who spoke. As May crossed 
the threshold she saw that Joanna and Susy 
were both standing by the dressing-table. 

" There 's no ' of course ' about it," Cathy re- 
torted sharply, " and you may call me silly if 
you like, Joanna Macy, but I should just like 
to ask you how you would feel to be treated 
like a baby — sent off to have your hair brushed 
and your face washed, right in the middle of a 
dance ? " 

" Hair brushed and face washed ! How you 
do go on, Cathy ! But it was n't in the middle 
of a dance. The cotillon had ended, and it 
was you who started that other thing — I saw 
you, and I should have thought Mrs. Bartlett 

would have been disgusted. It was horrid of 
you — a school-girl like you, to be so forward. 
I was so ashamed I did n't know what to do." 

"A school-girl like me ! I 'm fifteen, Joanna 

" What 's fifteen ? We are all nothing but a 
pack of school-girls, any way." 

" And to be stopjjed like that, and sent off, 
and your partner — a young gentleman, stand- 
ing with you ! " 

" Oh, that 'sit! A young gentleman ! That 
Everett boy!" and Joanna laughed scornfully. 

Cathy's rage did n't cool at Joanna's speech, 
and she was about to retort again, when May 
broke in with, her entreaty : 

" Oh, t/a come, Catliy ! I have been sent 
for you." 

" Yes, s/ie^ sent you, I suppose," with a sneer- 
ing emphasis upon the pronoun. 

" Cathy, you are very — very unjust. If you 
did but know it, she has been very kind to you," 
cried May. 

" She ! She ! She ! " Cathy mockingly re- 
peated. " That is what May calls this step- 
mother of whom all at once she is so fond ! " and 
then, in a few sharp, stinging words, Cathy let 
loose the irritation that had been accumulating 
from her hurt vanity for the last few days. In 
these words were reproach and accusation, which 
had enough truth in them to make it very diffi- 
cult for May to control herself; but with the 
reproach and accusation against herself were 
mixed at last such comment and criticism of 
her stepmother as not only May, but the two 
other girls, felt to be both unfair and imper- 

" How can you, Cathy ? " burst out Joanna 
indignantly. " Mrs. Bartlett has been lovely 
to you — to us all, I 'm sure. If you had to 
sputter out that silly prejudice against step- 
mothers at first, you might stop now. I should 
think you 'd harmed May about enough." 

"/harmed May ! May hated her stepmother 
from the first. It was May who told me — " 
Her voice suddenly ceased as she caught the 
expression of horror in May's eyes, — May, who 
was looking beyond her at somebody, or some- 
thing, — who — what could it be ? 

To be contintied.) 


(A Legend of Ns'lO Mexico in the Fifteenth Century.) 

By Charles F. Lummis. 











\ N '% 


EAR ye, people of Acoma, 
for I, the Governor, speak. 
To-morrow, go ye down to 
the fields to plow; already 
it is the month of rain, and 
there is Httle in the store- 
rooms. Let all go forth, 
that we build shelters of cedar and stay in the 
fields. The women, also, to cook for us. Take 
ye each one his burros, and food for a month. 
And pray that the Sun-Father, Pa-yat-yama, give 
us much com this year." 

As white-headed Kai-a-tan-ish passed delib- 
erately down the front of the houses, the soft 
Queres words rolling sonorously from his deep 
throat, the people stopped their work to listen 
to him. The ruddy sun was just resting over 
the cliffs of the Black Mesa, which walled the 
pretty valley on the west, and the shadows of 
the houses were creeping far out along the 
rocky floor of the town. 

Such quaint houses as they were ! BuUt of 
gray adobe, terraced so that the three successive 
stories receded like a giganric flight of steps, 
they stood in three parallel rows, each a con- 
tinuous block a thousand feet long, divided by 
interior walls into wee but comfortable tene- 
ments. There were no doors nor windows in 
the lower story, but tall ladders reached to its 
roof, which formed a sort of broad piazza before 
the second-story door. Women were washing 
their hair with the soapy root of the palmilla on 
the yard-like roofs, or coming home from the 
great stone reservoir with gaily decorated iina- 
jas* of rain-water perched confidently upon their 
heads. Children ran races along the smooth 
rock which served for a street, or cared for their 
mothers' babies, slung upon their patient young 
backs. The men were very busy, tying up 
bundles in buckskin, putting new handles on 
their stone axes and hoes, or fitting to damaged 

arrows new heads shaped from pieces of quartz 
or volcanic glass. 

As the governor kept his measured way down 
the street, repeating his proclamation at inter- 
vals, a tall, powerfully-made Indian stepped from 
one of the houses, descended the ladder to the 
ground, and walked out toward the sunset until 
he could go no farther. He stood on the edge 
of a dizzy cliff". From its beetling top the old 
cedars in the plain below looked like dark-green 
moss. For in those days the Queres city of 
Acoma stood on the Rock of Katzimo — a great 
round, stone table two miles in circumference, 
and with perpendicular walls a thousand feet 
high. The level valley, five miles wide, was 
hemmed in by cliffs, forming a gigantic box; 
and in its very center rose the red Rock of 

Sho-ka-ka stood looking out at the fiery sun- 
set with a sad and absorbed expression. He 
did not hear the patter of bare feet on the rock 
behind him, nor did he turn till a small hand 
nestled in his own and a boy's clear voice said : 

" Ah, Tata ! To-morrow we go to the plant- 
ing ! The governor has said it. And perhaps 
I may kill rabbits with the new bow thou didst 
make me. When I am bigger, I will use it to 
kill the wicked Apaches." 

The man laid his muscular hand upon the 
boy's head and drew it to his side. " Still for 
war and the chase ! " he said, fondly. " But it 
is better to kill rabbits and deer than men. 
Think thou of that, A-chi-te. Wt Queres fight 
only to save our homes, not for the sake of 
fighting and plunder, as do the Apaches. But 
thy mother is very sick and can not go to the 
fields, and it is not kind to leave her alone. 
Only that I am a councilor of the city and must 
give a good example in working, I would stay 
with her. A hundred children will go to the 
fields, but thou shalt be a man to keep the town. 

' Large earthen jars. 




Two other women lie sick near the estii/a, and 
thou shall care for thy mother and for them." 

The boy's lip quivered an instant with dis- 
appointment; but Pueblo children never even 
think disobedience, and he shut his teeth firmly. 

" Poor Nana ! " (little mother) he said, " poor 
little Mamma ! Truly she can not be left alone. 
And, if the .\pachcs come, I will roll down 
such stones on them that they shall think the 
Hero Brothers have come down from the Sun- 
Father's house to fight for Acoma ! " 

"That is my brav-e. Now run thou home 
and grind the dried meat and put it in my 
pouch, that I may be ready to start early. All 
else is done. If thou dost well while I am 
gone, I will make tliee the best bow and quiver 
of arrows in all Acoma." 

A-chi-te started homeward, running like a 
deer. He was fifteen years old, tall for his age, 
clean-limbed and deep-chested. His heavy 
black hair was cut straight above his big, black 
eyes, and behind fell below his shoulders. He 
had the massive but clear-cut features of his 
father — a face of remarkable strength and 
beauty, despite the swarthy skin. 

Sho-ka-ka sighed as the boy ran off. " It is 
in an ill time that we start for the planting. I 
saw an owl in the cedars to-day, and it would 
not fly when I shouted. And when I smoked 
the holy smoke, I could not blow it upward at 
all. Perhaps the spirits are angry with us. It 
is good that we make a sacrifice to-night, to put 
their anger to sleep." And he strode thought- 
fully away to the great, round cstufa, where the 
councilors were to smoke and deliberate upon 
the morrow's work. 

When the Sun-Father peeped over the eastern 
mesas in the morning, he looked in the eyes of 
his expectant children. Motionless and statu- 
esque they stood upon the house-tops, awaiting 
his coming ; and now they bowed reverently as 
his round, red house rose above the horizon. A 
solemn sacrifice had been offered the night before, 
and all the medicine-men deemed the omens 
favorable, save old Poo-ya-tye, who shook 
his head but could not tell what he feared. 

Already an active young brave had rounded- 
up the hundreds of burros at the foot of the 
rock; and now a long procession of men, 
women, and children, bearing heavy burdens 

for the packs, was starting toward the southern 
brink of the cliff. A deep, savage cleft, gnawed 
out by the rains of centuries, afibrded a dan- 
gerous path for five hundred feet downward ; 
and then began the great Ladder Rock. A 
vast stone column, once part of the mesa, but 
cut off by the erosion of unnumbered ages, had 
toppled over so that its top leaned against the 
cliff, its base being two hundred feet out in a 
young mountain of soft, white sand. Up this 
almost precipitous rock a series of shallow steps 
had been cut. To others, this dizzy ladder 
would have seemed insurmountable ; but these 
sure-footed Children of the Sun thought nothing 
of it. It gave the only possible access to the 
mesa's top, and a well-aimed stone would roll 
a climbing enemy in gory fragments to the bot- 
tom. They could afford a little trouble, for the 
sake of having the most impregnable city in the 
world — these quiet folk who hated war, but 
lived among the most desperate savage war- 
riors the world has ever known — Apaches, 
Comanches, Navajos, and Utes. 

The seeds, the provisions, the stone hand- 
mills, the stone a.xes and hoes, the rude plows 
— each made of a young pine, with one short, 
strong branch left near the butt for a share — 
were packed upon the patient burros. Upon 
other burros mounted the men, riding double, 
and the women, each with children clinging 
before and behind her. As Sho-ka-ka rode 
away, he turned to look up once more at the 
Rock, and at the tiny figure outlined against the 
sky. It seemed no more than a wee black ant, 
but he knew it was his son, A-chi-te, and waved 
his hand as he yelled back, "Sha-wa-tsos/i/" 
from lungs as mighty as those of Montezuma. 

In half an hour the long procession had 
melted into the brown bosom of the valley; 
and even A-chi-te's keen eyes could distinguish 
it no longer. He drew a deep breath, threw 
back his square young shoulders, and walked 
away to his mother's house. Alone \nth three 
sick women, the only man in Acoma — no won- 
der the boy's head was carried even straighter 
than usual. Truly, this was better than going 
to the planting. All the boys had gone there, 
but he was trusted to guard alone the proudest 
city of the Queres ! 

He ran up the tall ladder and entered the 



house. At one side of the dark Kttle room la\- 
his mother on a low bed of skins. The boy 
put his warm cheek against the wasted face, 
and a thin hand crept up and stroked his heavy 
hair. " Little one of my heart," she whispered, 
" are they all gone ? " 

" All gone, Nana, and I am left to guard thee 
and the town. Now, await me while I make 
thee a drink oi atole."* 

A-chi-te went over to the big lava metale,\ at 
the other side of the room, drew from a buck- 
skin bag a handful of blue corn that had been 
parched in the big beehive of an oven, and, lay- 

ried a supply of gnarled cedar sticks into each 
house to feed the queer little mud fire-places, — 
for, at that altitude of over seven thousand feet, 
it was cold even in summer, — A-chi-te turned 
his attention to the duty which naturally seemed 
to his boyish ambition the most important — to 
guard the town. He slung over his shoulder 
his bow and arrows, in a case made from the 
skin of mo-keit-c/hi, the mountain-hon. Then 
he went scouring over the pueblo, gathering up 
all the stones he could find, from the size of his 
fist to that of his head, and carried them down 
to the foot of the great cleft where the Ladder 


ing the hard kernels on the sloping block, began 
to scrub them to powder with a small slab of 
lava, flat on one side and rounded on the other 
to fit the hand. When the com was reduced to a 
fine, bluish meal, he brushed it carefully into a 
litrie earthen bowl, and with a gourd-cup dipped 
some burro's milk from a caJeU-.\ This he poured 
slowly upon the meal, stirring with a stick, till 
the bowl was full of a thin, sweet porridge. 

" Drink, Nana," he said, holding the bowl to 
her lips, and supporting her head on his left 
arm. " Then I will carry ato/c to Stchu-muts 
and Kush-eit-ye." 

When he had fed his three charges and car- 

* .\ gruel made by boiling Indian corn in water or milk 
inclined plane, used for grinding corn. 

Vol.. XVII.— 24. 

Rock began. Here he stowed them in a little 
recess in the rock ; and as they were not so 
many as he thought desirable, he added to 
them several score adobe bricks from ruined 
houses. When this was done, he viewed his 
battery with great satisfaction. " Now let the 
Apaches come! Truly, they will find it bitter 
climbing ! " And, indeed, it was so. So long 
as his rude ammunition .should hold out, the 
boy alone coidd hold at bay a thousand foes. 
No arrow could reach to his lofty perch, nor 
could the strongest climber withstand even his 
lightest missile on that dizzy " ladder." 

A-chi-te now brought down some skins, and 

t .\ curved stone in the shape of an 
} X flat bowl of clay. 




made a little bed beside his pile of stones. 
There was no danger that the Apaches would 
come in the daytime, and he would sleep with 
his weapons by his side, so that they should not 
surprise him by night. During the day he could 
devote himself to the sick. 

Two days went by uneventfully, and A-chi-te 
was disappointed. Why did not the .Vpaches 
come, that he might show his father how well 
he could guard Acoma ? The third day dawned 
cloudy, and a ragged, sullen drift hid the Peak 
of Snow, away to the north. In the afternoon 
the rain began to sweep down violently, a sav- 
age wind dashing it against the adobes as 
if to hurl them from their solid foundations. 
Little rivers ran down the streets and poured 
from tiie edges of the clitT in hissing cataracts. 
A perfect torrent was running down the cleft, 
and spreading out over the great Ladder Rock 
in a film of foam. Luckily, .V-chi-te's missiles 
and bed were out of its reach. 

" Surely thou wilt not sleep in the Ladder 
to-night," said his mother, as she listened to 
the roar of the storm. 

" Yes, Nana, it must be. On such a night 
the .\paches are likeliest to come. I am not 
salt, that the rain should melt me ; and my bed 
is above the running water. What would Tata 
say, if he came home and found 1 had let the 
Apaches in, for fear of getting myself wet ? " 

When he had fed the sick, .\-chi-te took his 
bow and (]ui\cr and started for his post. It was 
already growing dark, and the storm showed no 
sign of abatement. It was a fearful climb down 
to his little crow's-nest of a fort. The narrow 
slipper}- path was at an average angle of over fifty 
degrees, and was now choked with a seething 
torrent. He had at one time to climb along 
precarious ledges above the water, and at an- 
other to trust himself waist-deep in that ava- 
lanche of foam — keeping from being swejjt 
down to instant death only by pressing des- 
perately against the rocky walls of the gorge, 
here not more than three feet apart. But at 
last, trembling with exhaustion, he drew himself 
up to his little niche and sank upon his drenched 
bed, while the white torrent bellowed and raxed 
under his feet, as if maddened at the loss of its 
expected prey. 

Deeper and deeper grew the darkness, fiercer 

and fiercer the storm. Such a rain had never 
been seen before in all the country of the Hano 
Oshatch. It came down in great sheets that 
veered and slanted with the desperate wind, 
dug up stout cedars by the roots, and pried 
great rocks from their lofty perches to send 
them thundering down the valley. To the 
shivering boy, drenched and alone in his angle 
of the giant chff, it was a fearful night ; and 
older heroes than he might have been pardoned 
for uneasiness. But he never thought of leav- 
ing his post; and, hugging the rocky wall to 
escape as far as he couKl the pitiless pelting 
of the cold rain, he watched the long hours 

" .\-chi-te : .\-chi-te ! " 

Surely that could not be his mother's voice ! 
The gray of dawn was beginning to assert itself 
on the dense blackness of the sky. The rain 
and the wind were more savage than ever. She 
could not be heard from the house he thought 
— and yet 

".\-chi-te! A-chi-te! " 

It 7i.'iis her voice; and in suq^rise and con- 
sternation .\-chi-te started up the cleft. It was 
still dark in that narrow, lofty-walled chasm ; the 
torrent was deeper and wilder than before. It 
was easier to go up than down in such a place ; 
but it was all his lithe young limbs and strong 
muscles could do to bring him to the top. 
There stood his mother, her soft, black hair 
blown far out on the fierce wind, her great eyes 
shining unnaturally in their shrunken settings. 

" SasJie Diiil-yei-sa.' The house is fallen ! It 
has broken my arm, and Kush-eit-ye is buried 
to her head under a wall, 'i'he white shadows 
have come for us 1 Thou must run to thy 
father, and Itring him home before we die ! 
Run, my brave, soul of my heart ! " 

The boy looked at her, and then down the 
roaring chasm. It was far worse than when 
he had descended before. .\nd the Ladder 
Rock — could he do it? He put his arm 
across his mother's shoulder and drew her head 
against his cheek, patting her back gently, — the 
quaint embrace of his people. 

" Get thee into a house, Nana. I go for Tata. 
S/ia-iua-tsos/i.'" And in another moment he 
had disappeared between the black jaws of the 



21 I 

The horror of a hfe- 
time was in that few 
hundred feet. Blinded 
by the rain, deafened by 
the hoarse thunder of 
the stream, he let him- 
self down foot by foot 
with desperate strength. 
Once the flood swept 
his feet from under him 
and left him hanging 
by the clutch of his 
hands upon the walls. 
It took two full min- 
utes to bring his feet 
back to the rock be- 
neath. But at last he 
came to where the cleft 
widened and the frantic 
stream spouted out and 
went rolling down the 
precipitous slope of the 
Ladder Rock. Here 
he stood a moment to 
catch his breath, and 
then turning, began to 
back do^Ti the slippery 
rock, his hands dug 
fiercely into one foot- 
notch, whOe his toes 
groped in the hissing 
water for the notch be- 
low. His teeth were 
set, his bronze face was 
a ghastly gray, his eyes 
were like coals. The 
wet strands of his hair 
whipped his face like 
scourges, his finger-ends 
were bleeding as he 
pressed them against the 

sandstone. But slowly, automatically as a ma- 
chine, he crept down, down, fighting the fierce 
water, clinging to the tiny toe-holes. Once he 
stopped. He was sure that he felt the rock 
tremble, and then despised himself for the 
thought. The great Ladder Rock tremble ? 
Why, it was as solid as the mighty mesa I 

It was half an hour before he reached the 
bottom of the rock ; and when he looked down- 


ward, over his shoulder, he cried out aghast. 
The cataract had had its way with the great 
hill of fine sand on which the base of the rock 
rested; and where the path had been was 
now a great gully fifty feet deep. To drop 
was certain death. He thought for a moment. 
Ah ! the />i/io/i .'* And he crawled to the side of 
the rock, which was here only a gentle slope. 
Sure enough there was the pii'wyi tree still stand- 

* Pine-tree (literally, the pine-nut seed or kernel). 

21 2 


ing, but on the very edge of the chasm. It was 
fifteen feet out and ten feet below him — an 
ugly jump. But he drew a long breath and 
leaped out. Crashing down through the brittle 
branches, bruised and torn and bleeding, he 
righted himself at last and drop])ed to the 
ground. A moment's breathing spell and he 
was dashing down the long sand-hill, and then 
away up the valley. The fields were eight miles 
away. Would his strength last, sorely tried as 
it had been ? He did not know ; but he pressed 
his hand against his bleeding side and ran on. 

Suddenly he felt the ground quiver beneath 
his feet. A strange, rushing sound filled his ears ; 
and, whirling about, he saw the great Ladder 
Rock rear, throw its head out from the cliff, 
reel there an instant in mid-air, and then go 
toppling out into the plain like some wounded 
Titan. .•\s those thousands of tons of rock smote 
upon the solid earth with a hideous roar, a great 
cloud went up, and the valley seemed to rock to 
and fro. From the face of the cliffs three miles 
away, great rocks came leaping and thundering 
down ; and the tall pifions swayed and bowcfl 
as before a hurricane. .\-chi-le was thrown 
headlong by the shock, and lay stunned. The 
Ladder Rock had fallen — the unprecedented 
flood had undermined its sandy bed ! 

.•\nd the town, — his mother — ! The boy 
sprang to his feet and began running again, 
stiffly, and with an awful pallor on his set face. 

When the men of .\coma came gallop- 
ing home on foaming burros, it was in deathly 
silence. And even when they stood beside 
that vast fallen pillar of stone, looking up at 
the accursed cliff, not one could speak a word. 
There was Acoma, the city in the sky. the home 
of their forefathers ; 
but their feet would 
never press its rock\ 
streets again. Fi\c 
hundred feet abo\ l 
their heads opened 
the narrow cleft : 
and five hundred 
feet higher, against 
the sullen grav skv. 

flitted two wan figures whose frantic shrieks 
scarce reached the awe-struck crowd below. 
No ladder could ever be built to scale that 
dizzy height. The clift" everywhere was peri)en- 
dicular. And so, forever exiled from the homes 
that were before their eyes, robbed of their all, 
heart-wrung by the sight of the doomed women 
on the cliff, the simple-liearled Children of the 
Sun circled long about the fatal Rock of Kat- 
zimo. Council after council was held, sacrifice 
after sacrifice was offered ; but the merciless 
clift" .still frowned unpitying. It became plain 
that they must build a new town to be safe from 
the savage tribes which surrounded them on 
every side ; and on a noble mesa, three miles 
to the south, they founded a new .\coma, where 
it stands to-day, five hundred feet above the 
plain, and safe from a similar catastro])he. 

For weeks the two women haunted the brink 
of their aerial prison, and daily Sho-ka-ka and 
A-chi-te went to its foot with sympathizing 
neighbors to weep, and to scream out words 
of hopeless encouragement. Then Stchu-muts 
came no more, and Nai-chat-tye was alone. 
Back and forth .she paced, like some caged 
beast chafing at the bars ; and then, throwing 
up her wasted arms, sprang out to her death. 

Full four hundred years have passed .since 
then, and the land of the Pueblos is filling with 
a race of white-skinned strangers. Scientific 
expeditions have exhausted the ingenuity of 
civilization to scale the Rock of Katzimo and 
recover its archaeological treasures, but all in 
vain. The natives shun it, believing it accursed. 
And to-day, as I sit on the rocky battlements of 
the Acoma that now is, watching the sunset glory 

creeping higher up 
that wondrous island 
of ruddy rock to the 
north, an old Indian 
at my side tells the 
oft-repeated stor)^ of 
the Enchanted Mesa. 
He is the many- 
times - great-grand- 
son of A-chi-te. 


By Charles G. D. Roberts. 

The story which I am about to relate was 
told me beside the camp-fire, on the banks of 
the Big Squatook, in south-eastern Quebec. 

The wild regions about the Squatook lakes 
are rich in fish and game. With their virgin 
forests, wild streams, exquisite and varied land- 
scapes, this country is a Paradise for sportsmen 
and canoemen. A party of four, devotees 
of gun and rod and paddle, we went one Jul}- 
to this land of the Big Squatook ; and round 
the camp-fire one chilly evening, when a sudden 
north wind had put an abrupt end to our fish- 
ing, Stranion, being in a certain sense the leader 
of our party, was called upon for a story of 
adventure. We all were experienced woods- 
men, with a large stock of stories at our com- 
mand ; but Stranion's experience was the widest, 
and to him had fallen the strangest and most 
thrilling adventures. 'When Stranion was not 
w-ith us, a good yam might be elicited from 
the lips of W. B., or Sam, or even my.self ; but 
in Stranion's presence we paled our " uneftectual 
fires." It was on this account, perhaps, that we 
were given to interrupting Stranion with occa- 
sional gibes and questionings, lest he should grow 
too overwhelmingly conscious of the superiorit}- 
of his gift. 

When we had heaped our camp-fire to thrice 
its accustomed height, and had huddled our- 
selves comfortably in our blankets under the lee 
of the tent, we turned our attention to Stranion, 
and Stranion began : 

" Boys, the air bites shrewdly. It is a nipping 
and an eager air. In fact, it puts me forcibly in 
mind of one of mv best adventures, which befell 

me that winter when I was trapping on the Little 
Sou'vvest Miramichi." 

" Oh, come ! Tell us a good summer story, 
old man," interrupted W. B. " I 'm half frozen 
as it is, to-night. Tell us about some place 
down in the tropics where they have to cool 
their porridge with boiling water." 

" Nay," replied Stranion, " my thoughts are 
\\intry, and even so must my story be." 

He traced in the air a few meditative circles 
with his pipe (which he rarely smoked, using it 
rather for oratorical effect), and then resumed : 

" That was a hard winter of mine on the Little 
Sou'west. I enjoyed it at the time, and it did 
me good ; but, looking back upon it now, I 
wonder what induced me to undertake it. I 
got the experience, and I indulged my hobby 
to the full ; but by spring I felt like a barbarian. 
It is a fine thing, boys, as we all agree, to be an 
amateur woodsman, and it brings a fellow very 
close to nature ; but it is much more sport in 
summer than in winter, and it 's better when one 
has good company than when he 's no one to 
talk to but a pretematurally gloomy Melicite. 

'■I had Noel with me that winter — a good 
hunter and true, but about as companionable as 
a mud-turtle. Our traps were set in two great 
circuits, one on the south side of the stream, the 
other on the north. The range to the north was 
in my own charge, and a ^-ery big charge it 
was. When I had any sort of luck, it used 
to take me a day and a half to make the round, 
for I had seventeen traps to tend, spread out 
o\-er a range of about twenty miles. But when 
the traps were not well filled, I used to do it 




without sleeping awaj' from cam]). It 's not 
much like play, I can tell you, tramping all day 
on snow-shoes through those woods, carrying an 
axe, a fowling-piece, food, ammunition, and 
sometimes a pack of furs. Whenever I had to 
sleep out, I would dig a big oblong hole in the 
snow, build a roaring fire at one end of the hole, 
bury myself in hemlock boughs at the other end, 
and snooze like a dormouse till morning. I 
relied implicitly on the fire to keep off any bears 
or Indian Devils* that might be feeling inquisi- 
tive as to whether I would be good eating. 

" The snow must have been fully six feet dee]) 
that year. One morning, near the last of 
February, I had set out on my round, and had 
made some three miles from our shanty, when 
I caught sight of a covey of j)artri(lges in the 
distance, and turned out of my way to get a 
shot at them. It had occurred to me that per- 
chance a brace of tiiem might make savory 
morsels for my sujiper. .\fter a considerable 
deioiir, I bagged my birds and recovered my trail 
near the last trap I had visited. My tracks, as 
I had left them, had been solitary enough ; but 
now I found the\' were accompanied by the 
foot-prints of a large Indian Devil. 

" I did n't really expect to get a shot at the 
beast, but I loaded both barrels with ball-car- 
tridges. As I went on, however, it began to strike 
me as strange that the brute should ha])pen to 
be going so far in my direction. Step for step his 
foot-prints clung to mine. When I reached the 
place where I had branched oft" in search of the 
partridges, I found that the panther had branched 
off with me. So polite a conformity of his ways 
to mine could have but one significance. I was 
being tracked ! 

" The idea, when it first struck me, struck me 
with too much force to be agreeable. It was a 
very unusual proceeding on the part of an In- 
dian Devil, displaying a most imperfect concep- 
tion of the fitness of things. That I should hunt 
him was proper and customary; but that he 
should think of hunting me was presumptuous 
and most unpleasant. I resolved that he should 
be made to repent it before night. 

"The traps were unusually successful that 
trip, and at last I had to stop and make a cache 
of my spoils. This unusual delay seemed to mis- 

* A name sometimes 

lead my wily jnirsuer, who suddenly came out 
of a thicket while I was hidden behind a tree 
trunk. As he crept stealthily along on my tracks, 
not fifty yards away, I was disgusted at his sleuth- 
hound persistence and crafty malignity. I raised 
my gun to my .shoulder, and in another moment 
would have rid myself of his undesired attentions, 
but the animal must have caught a gleam from 
the shining barrels, for lie turned like a tlash and 
buried himself in the thicket. 

" It was evident that he did not wish the mat- 
ter forced to an immediate issue, .^s a conse- 
quence, I decided tliat it ought to be settled at 
once. I ran toward the thicket, but at the same 
time the panther stole out on the other side and 
disa])peared in the woods. 

" Upon this I concluded that he had become 
scared and given uj) his unhallowed purpose. 
For some hours I dismissed him from my mind 
and tended my traps witliout further a])])rehen- 
sion. But about the middle of the afternoon, or 
a little later, when I had reached the furthest 
point on my circuit, I once more became im- 
pressed with a sense that I was being followed. 
The impression grew so strong that it weighed 
upon me, and I determined to bring it to a test. 
Taking some luncheon from my pocket, I .sat 
down behind a tree to nibble and wait. I su])- 
pose I must have sat there ten minutes, hearing 
nothing, seeing nothing, .so that I was about to 
give it up and continue my tramj), when — along 
came the panther ! My gun was leveled in.stantly, 
but at that same instant the brute had disap- 
peared. His eyes were sharper than mine. ' Ah ! ' 
said I to myself, ' I shall have to keep a big fire 
going to-night, or this fellow will pay me a call 
when I am snoring ! ' " 

" Oh ! surely not ! " murmured W. B., pen- 
sively. The rest of us laughed, but Stranion only 
waved his pipe with a gesture that commanded 
silence, and went on : 

" About sundown I met with an unlucky acci- 
dent, which dampened both my spirits and my 
powder. In crossing a swift brook, at a place 
where the ice was hardly thick enough to hold up 
its covering of snow, I broke through and was 
soaked. After fishing myself out with some dif- 
ficulty, I found my gun was full of water which 
had frozen as it entered. Here was a pretty 
given to panthers. 



fix ! The weapon was for the present utterly 
useless. I feared that most of my cartridges 
were in like condition. The prospect for the 
night, when the Indian Devil should arrive upon 
the scene, was not a cheerful one. I pushed on 
miserably for another mile or so, anil then pre- 
pared to camp. 

" First of all, I built such a fire as I thought 
would impress upon the Indian Devil a due sense 
of my importance and my mysterious powers. 
At a safe distance from the fire I spread out my 
cartridges to dry, in the fervent hope that the 
water had not penetrated far enough to render 
them useless. My gun I put where it would thaw 
as quickly as possible. 

" Then I cut enough fire-wood to blaze all 
night. With my snow-shoes I dug a deep hollow 
at one side of the fire. The fire soon melted 
the snow beneath it and brought it down to the 
level whereon I was to place my couch. I may 
say that the ground I had selected was a gentle 
slope, and the fire was below my bed, so that 
the melting snows could run off freely. Over 
my head I fixed a good, firm ' lean-to ' of spruce 
saplings, thickly thatched with boughs. Thus I 
secured myself in such a way that the Indian 
Devil could come at me only from the side on 
which the fire was burning. Such approach, I 
congratulated myself, would be little to His 
Catship's taste. 

" By the time my shelter was completed it was 
full night in the woods. My fire made a ruddy 
circle about the camp, and presently I discerned 
the panther, gliding in and out among the tree- 
trunks on the outer edges of the circle. He 
stared at me with his round green eyes, and I 
returned the gaze with cold indifference. I was 
busy putting my gun in order. I would not en- 
courage him lest he might grow too familiar 
before I was ready for his reception. 

" Between my gleaming walls of snow I had 
worked up a temperature that was fairly tropical. 
/Vway up overhead, among the pine-tops, a few 
large stars glimmered lonesomely. How far 
away seemed the world of my friends on whom 
these same stars were looking down ! I won- 
dered how those at home would feel if they 
could see me there by my solitary camp-fire, 
watched relentlessly by that prowling and vin- 
dictive beast. 

" Presently, finding that I made no attack 
upon him, the brute slipped noiselessly up to 
within a dozen paces of the fire. There he 
crouched down in the snow and glared upon 
me. I hurled a flaming brand at him and he 
sprang backward, snarling, into the gloom. But 
the brand spluttered in the snow and went out, 
whereupon the brute returned to his post. Then 
I threw another at him ; but he regarded it this 
time with contempt, merely drawing aside to 
give it room. When it had gone black out, he 
approached, pawed it over, and sniffed in su- 
premest contempt. Then he came much nearer, 
so that I thought he was about to spring upon 
me. I moved discreetly to the other side of the 

" By this time the gun was ready for action, 
but not so the cartridges. They were lying 
further from the fire and dangerously near my 
unwelcome visitor. I perceived that I must make 
a diversion at once. 

" Selecting a resinous stick, into which the fire 
had eaten deeply, so that it held a mass of glow- 
ing coals, I launched it suddenly with such care- 
ful aim that it struck right between the brute's 
forelegs. As it scorched there, he caught and bit 
at it angrily, dropped it with a screaming snarl, 
and shrank farther away. When he crouched 
down, biting the snow, I followed up my advan- 
tage by rushing upon him with a blazing roll of 
birch-bark. He did not await my onset, but 
bounded oft" among the trees, where I could hear 
him grumbling in the darkness over his smarting 
mouth. I left the bark blazing in the snow while 
I went back to see to my precious cartridges. 

" Before long the panther reappeared at the 
limits of the lighted circle, but seemed not 
quite so confident as before. Nevertheless, it was 
clear that he had set his heart on making a meal 
of me, and was not to be bluffed out of his design 
by a few firebrands. 

" I discovered that all my ball-cartridges were 
spoiled ; but there were a few loaded with shot, 
which the water had not penetrated. From these 
I withdrew the shot, and substituted ball and 
slugs. Then, slipping a ball-cartridge into one 
barrel, slugs into the other, and three or four 
extra cartridges into a handy pocket, I waited 
for my opponent to recover his confidence. As 
he seemed content to wait awliile, I set about 




broiling my partridges, for 1 was becoming clam- 
orously hungry. 

" So also was the ])anther, as it seemed. 
When the odor of those partridges stole seduc- 
tively to his nostrils, he once more approached 
my fire, and this time with an air of stem deter- 
mination quite different from his former easy 

" The crisis had come. I seized my gun and 
knelt down behind the fire. I arranged a burn- 
ing log in such a manner that I could grasp and 
wield it with both hands in an emergency. 
Just as the animal drew himself together for a 
spring, I fired one barrel, — that containing the 
ball, — and shattered his lower jaw. Mad with 
pain and fury, he sprang. The contents of my 
second barrel, a heavy charge of slugs, met him 

full in the breast, and lie fell in a heap at my 

" .As he lay there, struggling and snarling and 
tearing up the snow, I slipped in another car- 
tridge ; and the ne.xt moment a bullet in his brain 
put an end to his miseries. 

" After this ])erformance, I ate my partridges 
with a very grateful heart, and slept the sleep of 
the just and the victorious. The skin of that 
audacious Indian Devil lies now in my study, 
where Sam is continually desecrating it with 
his irreverent shoes." 

A few moments after Stranion had finished 
his story, the camp on the Big Squatook was 
wrapped in slumber, and the loons out in the 
bosom of the moonlit lake were laughing to one 
another unheeded. 


By Elia W. Peattie. 

^HE theater was crowded 
from the topmost gallery 
to the orchestra chairs. 
Out at the entrance was 
the legend " Standing-room 
only." Warmth and music 
and perfume floated out to 
the loungers in the vestibule. 
People chatted in the dim 
light and commented upon 
the new mural decorations, or wondered who 
the people in the boxes could be. Presently the 
orchestra finished the overture. The " gods " 
in the gallery grew impatient and began to call 
for the curtain to rise. Better-bred people 
wondered what could be the matter, and read 
the cast, and all the advertisements, and then 
read the cast again. There were on the list names 
of men and women famous in their profession ; 
and, indeed, every name on it except one was 
known to the impatient audience. This was a 
very short name half-way -down the cast, and it 
stood opposite the character Richard, Duke 
of York. " Joe Wade," they .read, — " Master 
Joe Wade," with the tliought, "Now, where 
did he come from ? " and then they fell to 
studying the curtain and the orchestra began 
the bars which served as a prelude to the open- 
ing of the play. 

At this time, behind the scenes everything was 
in a .state of .systematic busde. Each man or 
woman had something to do and was at work. 
The only calm figure on the busy scene was 
that of Walsh, the stage-manager, — a middle- 
aged man with iron-gray hair and mustache. 
His face wore a serious look, heightened by the 
furrows about the mouth. He sent directions 
and commands flying to unseen stage-hands 
in the mysterious region below the floor, or in 
Vol. XVII.— 25. 

the dimly lighted space above. " Take that 
' fly ' out of the way ! " he shouted to one ; 
" Hoist up the moon about two feet. Bring an 
extra ' tormentor ' ' down left ' ! Get out of the 
way, Pie ! " — this last to a sharp-featiu-ed lad of 
sixteen who acted as call-boy. " Is everything 
ready for the first act ? " " Yes," came the 
answer. " All right ! " said Walsh ; " clear the 
stage." And there was a scurrying of feet as all 
the stage-hands left the set-scene and huddled 
in the wings to watch the opening action, or 
went oft" about their other duties. One man, 
watching through a peep-hole in the curtain, 
saw the signal from the leader of the orchestra, 
and communicated it to the curtain-man by two 
sharp strokes on a gong, and sprang oft' the 
stage as the curtain with a steady crackle 
rolled itself in ponderous folds into the upper 
region. Kings, queens, and lords moved about 
through the mimic tragedy. Pie, the call- 
boy, hurried to and fro in a state of distrac- 
tion. The men would stop to talk and the 
women to put the finishing touches to their 
"•make-up," and they all seemed to object to 
being ordered about by a boy with freckles ; but 
it was the business of Pie to have every one in 
readiness to step upon the .stage at the proper 
moment. The great tragedian was in excellent 
mood, and he limped and frowned through the 
part of Richard the Third (for it was Shaks- 
pere's tragedy of that name they were repre- 
senting) in a truly blood-curdling manner. 
He was as wicked and cruel as any one could 
wish, and the people applauded him to the 
echo. In the midst of this highly successful 
act, Pie happened to go to the dressing-room 
which was assigned to the two little princes 
who had come there to be smothered. The 
Prince of Wales was there, in an elegant velvet 




suit and in a state of despair. He was the son 
of an actor, and had been on the stage ever 
since he could tell taffy from peanuts. Even 
earlier, in fact, for he had been carried on in his 
long clothes and had then caused every woman 
in tlie theater to exclaim, " How lovely ! " This 
small gentleman was in a rage truly princely. 

" That little dunce, Joe Wade, has n't turned 
up," he said. " Now, what am I to do ? I 
can't go on and speak his lines and mine too, 
and I suppose the audience won't be satisfied 
with only one prince." 

Pie rushed to Mr. Walsh. " Duke of York 
is n't here, sir," he cried. 

" Not here ! " said the stage-manager, in a 
tone of dismay. " Let us see, — that is Wade, 
is n't it ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" I wonder what can be the matter with him. 
He rehearsed this morning letter perfect. Has 
n't any word come from his mother ? " 

" I '11 see, sir," said Pie as he dashed off to 
ascertain. The stage-manager stepped quickly 
to the dressing-room of the tragedian, where, in 
a brief absence from the stage, the cruel Richard 
was eating a sandwich with evident relish. 

" The boy who rehearsed the younger prince 
has n't showed up yet," said Walsh. 

" Oh, come now," said the malignant Gloster. 
"That 's too bad. He was a bright lad, 'so 
young and yet so subtle. ' " 

" Can't we cut the Duke of York scene ? " 
suggested the stage-manager. 

" No, sir," retorted the other. " Not a line 
shall be cut out. Is n't there any one else?" 

" I can't think of any one else who can do 
the part," said the stage-manager. 

" I should think you would have an under- 
study all coached ready for an emergency like 
this," said the actor with considerable spirit. " To 
cut that scene will be to spoil the act, and then 
we '11 catch it from the crirics in the morning." 

" Well, it 's all we can do to run a theater, let 
alone a Foundlings' Home," retorted Walsh. 

Pie rushed up in his usual state of breathless- 
ness. " There 's word come, sir, from Wade." 

" Well, what is it ? " 

" It 's his sister, sir. She says he 's broke his 

" Here 's a pretty mess ! " Walsh stamped 

out to invesrigate. He found, standing in the 
wings, a very chilly little girl, who began talking 
fast, as he came up. 

" You 're Mr. Walsh, are n't you ? Joey 's 
broken his leg. He fell down the back stairs 
just as he was starting to come here. He tried 
to come even after that, sir, and wanted to make 
Mamma think he could limp all the better on 
'countofit. But 't was no use. He just r^/////;/'/." 
Bertha flung out her hands in her earnestness; 
then clasped them again. " And he cried so 
hard. He said the piece would all be spoiled. 
That it was just no good at all if the princes 
were n't smothered in the tower and — and what 
are you going to do, sir ? " 

" Do ? " said Mr. Walsh. " I 'm in a fix." 
" I suppose not another person knows the 
words to say," said Bertha ; the tears dried up 
in her eyes and they shone with excitement. 
" No," confessed Mr. Walsh, " not a soul." 
" You don't think — " the little girl stopped 
and trembled, with her cheeks as red as hve 
coals. "Joey '11 just go crazy if all the people 
see his name on the bill, and know it was he 
that spoiled the play." She choked down a 
sob. " I could n't help it, sir, I really could n't. 
I 've got to do something. I shall have to play 
the part myself." She looked like a little general 
about to storm a fort. 

" Why, — have you ever played it ? " 
" Lots of times, — at home with Joey." 
" But would n't you be frightened at all the 
people when you went on the stage ? " The 
stage-manager had a gleam of hope in his eye. 
" I don't think I should. It would be easier 
than going home and teUing Joey the play was 
spoiled. I would n't look at them. I 'd just 
act. He says to me, ' How fares our loving 
brother ? ' and I say, ' Well, my dread Lord ; so 
must I call you now. ' " 

" Bless me! — " said Walsh, half to himself. 
" She knows the lines." 

" Oh, yes, sir. I know all the words 'way 
down to ' I shall not sleep in quiet at the 
Tower.' Then I mock King Richard when he 
walks, so." She drew up her arms, made an 
imaginary hump and limped along, scowling. 
"Then I make a face at him behind his back 
and tell him, ' I 'm afraid of my uncle Clar- 
ence' angry ghost.' " 



" Capital ! " said the stage-manager. " I '11 
take the risk. I 'm afraid there 's no time to 
lose. Here ! " — he held out his hand. She took 
it, and trotted along, stumbling over the shawl 
that was falling from her shoulders. He led 
her to the dressing-room of one of the ladies, 
to which he presently brought the Duke of 
York's costume. He explained the emergency, 
and the good-natured actress aided Bertha to 
put on the little prince's dress. The next half- 
hour passed like a dream. 

" Mamma and Joey did n't know I was going 
to act," she explained to the actress. " I 'm 
afraid they '11 think something dreadful has 
happened to me when they find I don't come 
home, but I knew they 'd think I could n't, if 
I told them. Are n't these clothes a fine fit ? 
We 're exactly the same size, Joey and me. 
You see it was n't only that Joey could n't bear 
to break his promise, but then," — frowning a 
little and looking very serious, — " we could n't 
afford to lose the money, either. We '11 need it 
more than ever, now that Joey's leg is broken." 
She sighed, and the tears welled up in her eyes. 
The lady put her arm around her and drew her 

"Try hard not to be frightened," said she. 
" Don't think about the crowd in front, at all." 

" No," broke in Bertha, " I '11 just think of 

" And when you stand still," said the actress, 
" stand perfectly still. Don't move your hands 
or feet unless you have reason to. Be sure and 
look straight at the person you are talking to, 
and when you speak, hold up your chin a little 
so the sound will go out into the house. It will 
be easier to speak in a high tone." She showed 
her how, gave a few finishing touches to her 
hair, — for they found it prettier than the wig, — 
and almost before Bertha knew it, she was on 
the stage. 

In the mean time, His Royal Highness, the 
Prince of Wales, had been in a sad way. " I 
hate to act with a girl," he said, and kicked about 
his histrionic legs. " She 's a greeny, too, and 
probably does n't know her lines. She 's sure 
to spoil my part. I had counted on making a 
great hit, but she does n't know anything about 
the proper ' business ' of tlie part. These 
wretched ' amachures ' never do." But the 

talented young man was compelled to bow his 
head to fate and go on the stage at the proper 

Bertha's head swam a little, and the words 
the others were speaking sounded far off. She 
glanced at the audience. It seemed to rise 
from her feet up, up to the very ceiling. Then it 
seemed to swell into one immense face with 
myriad eyes all looking at her. For one terrible 
moment she was tempted to cover her face with 
her hands and rush from the stage. Then she 
remembered Joey at home crying with pain and 
disappointment, and she was recalled to her 

senses by the well-remembered words : " How 
fares our loving brother ? " She tried to speak 
as if she always had been a prince and was 
quite used to talking in such high-sounding 
language. She tried to hate the wicked Rich- 
ard, as she had heard her mother tell Joey to 
do, and to speak as fiercely and saucily as she 
could to him. She pulled at his garments and 
mimicked his gait, and screwed up her face in 
imitation of his, and tried to speak with great 
politeness to the royal prince ; and in her heart 
all the time whispered " Joey ! Joey ! " The 




house became quieter as she went on ; tlie child 
was so intent upon her work. She never faltered 
till the last word was spoken, but when she was 
safe in the wings again, she began to feci faint 
and weak. The speeches on the stage were 
lost in a burst of a])plause that swelled and 
swelled until it grew quite deafening. 

•• What is it ? " she said, very much frightened, 
turning to the Prince of Wales. 

The stage-manager came up. 


" Well, well," he said, smiling for once that 
evening, " I believe you '11 have to go back." 

" And do it all over again ? " said Bertha 
aghast. She feared that she had made some 
dreadful mistake. 

" No, no; go on and bow to the audience and 
come right back again." 

" I '11 lead her on," said the Prince of Wales. 

" No," said Walsh, " she 'd better go alone." 

" ."Vre diey pleased, sir ? " asked Bertha as 
the applause still continued. 

" Well, what a little greenhorn I " ejaculated 
the prince. The actress who had dressed her 
gently pushed her on the stage again. " I 'm 
just cheating," she thought to herself; "they 
think it 's Joey." 

'• Bow to them, my dear," said the great tra- 

gedian in an undertone. .\ litde girl about her 
own age leaned far out of the nearest box and 
smiled at her, and flung something that fell just 
at Bertha's feet. It was a bunch of beautiful 
pink roses. Somebody picked them up and 
handed them to her. The audience applauded 
more loudly than ever. The child looked so 
pretty and small and shy. " Tliese flowers are 
for Joey," said Bertha's guilty little heart. She 
formed a sudden resolution. She walked straight 
do\vn to the footlights, 
holding the beautiful 
roses in her hand. The 
people were quiet in- 
standy, wondering what 
could be coming now. 
She held up her chin, 
as the actress had told 
her to do, and spoke 
high. " Please," she said, 
" please, you must n't 
think I 'm Joey. He 's 
liroken his leg and could 
not come. I 'm only 
Bertha." Then she grew 
terrified at the sound of 
her voice, speaking alone 
in that great place to so 
many people, and, bur)-- 
ing her face in the roses, 
ran from the stage in a 
^ tumult of alarm and tears. 

When Bertha was 
dressed in her own clothes again and ready to 
go home, Richard the Third came to her, all 
dres-sed in his ermine as he was, and took her 
in his arms and kissed her. It was something 
to remember all her life, if only Bertha had 
known it. Then he hurried back to his duty, 
leaving something in her hand that Bertha was 
then too excited to examine, but which she held. 
" I think my carriage has come," said the 
actress who played the part of Lady .\nne ; 
'T 'd better send the child home in it." 

" You must play Joey's part till he is well 
again," said the stage-manager. Bertha nodded. 
They asked her where she lived, told the 
driver, and Bertha was put in among the warm 
cushions of the carriage, and whirled over the 
streets toward her home. She sat quite on the 



edge of the seat in her trepidation, and held 
both hands close shut, one around the roses and 
the other around the great man's gift. She was 
afraid the driver would make a mistake in the 
house, but he found the right one, and when she 
was lifted out she flew up the steps like a bird. 
The door was open and Mamma was standing 
on the threshold, looking very pale and anxious. 

" Oh, Bertha, where have you been ? " But 
the little daughter's bright face stopped her 
with the sentence half spoken. 

" Is Joey asleep ? " whispered Bertha; and as 
the mother shook her head, the httle girl could 
contain herself no longer. "Joey ! Joey ! " she 

cried, springing into the room, " I played it. I 
said all your words, and they thought I was you. 
But I told them I was n't. And a little girl 
ga^•e me the flowers, and Richard the Third 
gave me" — she opened her hand and looked 
at the contents. It was a twenty-dollar gold- 
piece. It might ha\'e been a penny for all 
Bertha cared. " King Richard is real nice off 
the stage, is n't he, Joey? Oh, Mamma! 1 
hope you were n't very frightened." 
" Bertha," said Joey, " you 're a brick ! " 
" Oh, I 'm so glad you think so ! " she said. 
Two litde tears started in her eyes. '' Mamma, 
I 'm so tired. Won't you put me to bed ? " 


{B^/orc Christmas.) 

By Malcolm Douglas. 

DADDY 's lost the job he had a-drivin' on the line. 
An' so he 's took to carryin' a advertisin'-sign ; 
All 'at he 's a-makin' now is fifty cents a day, 
Walkin' up an' down, an' givin' little bills away. 

Daddy he tells Mammy 'at it won't be long afore 
He fin's anudder job at sumpin 'at '11 pay him more ; 
An' Bess an' me 's a-hopin' 'at he '11 git it soon, a-cause 
It 's putty nearly 'bout the time to look fur Santy Klaws ! 

I 'm 'mos' eight years old, an' Bess is Htder 'an me. 
An' Mammy 's been a-promisin' 'at we could have a tree 
Big as what the Dolans had las' year on Chrisa-mus, 
An' there 's seven little Dolans, an' there 's on'y two of us ! 

But Mammy now is worried 'bout the rent a-comin' on, 
An' we don't drink no more coffee, an' the bag o' flour 's gone ; 
An' the coal 'at 's in the closet is a-gittin' down so fast 
We sif's the cinders over twict to try an' make it last. 

So it don't much look as if a tree 's a-goin' to be had, 

An' we 've stopped' Mammy 'cause it on'y makes her mad, 

An' we both have made it up to stop a-plaguin' Daddy too 

Fur centses to buy candy with, jus' like we used to do. 

But we keep a-hopin' to oursel's it won't be alius so. 
An' a-prayin' an' a-prayin', though we don't let Mammy know. 
If there 's a job to spare, 'at Daddy '11 git it right away — 
Sumpin' 'at '11 bring him more 'an fifty cents a day ! 



By Mabel Loomis Todd. 

A wiDF. window in my little house lets in a 
great many beautiful sights through the day, and 
all the year it fills the room with pleasantness. 

When the air is a whirling confusion of snow- 
flakes, and the birches standing in the midst of 
the falling snow can hardly be distinguished 
from the flying whiteness, as well as when the 
same fairy trees, fluttering their dainty leaves in 
imperceptible breezes, quiver in the August 
sunshine, tliere are lovely and satisfying pictures 
in that favored room, whether snow-birds flit by, 
or robins and song-sjiarrows. 

In early May, the outlines of the trees grow 
softer against the sky — a grayish mist enfolds 
each little branch and twig. The elms and 
maples dream of their coming foliage — not far 
behind such gentle prophecy. Just at sunset, 
all over the lawn the fresh young clovers fold 
their littie green hands, and bow their heads 
above them for the quiet night — and then some- 
thing interesting happens. 

While the sun is still bright, but the shadows, 
growing longer, stretch the gables in silhouette 
across the meadow, suddenly the air is filled 
with a soft flutter of wings, and a sound of twit- 
tering falls from the sky. A grand procession 
of swallows vibrates above us, sweeping around 
in a great circle, so swifdy that our eyes can not 
follow the separate flights. Where they came 

from wc did not notice ; but a moment before 
the blue sky was clear, and now, looking black 
in the sunlight, these busy little visitors float, 
shar]>ly outlined, against that airy background. 

Around and around they sweep, sometimes in 
a solid mass of dark, fluttering wings — often 
scattered far apart in their invisible, circling 
track, but ever around, like forest leaves blown 
wildly by November gales. They keep up this 
mad whirl for an hour, while the sunhght grows 
less and less, and the cool dampness brings out 
the sweet odor of fresh grass. 

Then Millicent and I sit at the big window, 
and watch for what may happen next. 

Near us stands an old house with a generous 
chimney in the middle, toward which, as a cen- 
ter, this swinging circle gradually contracts. 
The tremulous flutter above is like the fall of 
raindrops ; but, while we look, the wings are 
frequently spread and fixed, here and there a 
httle bird floats smoothly around the chimney- 
top, only to flutter onward again in a few 
seconds still more swiftly, as the wind or the 
notion takes him. 

Near the end of their sunset flying, often all 
the swallows reverse their direction, suddenly 
doubling backward, until, with a quick " order 
out of chaos," the circle is re-formed with every 
bird turned the other way. 



Having short, stubby tails, they lack the 
grace of the beautiful bam-swallows ; but our 
deUght in these fascinating neighbors is not 
strictly measured by length of tail. 

Finally the circle grows almost confusingly 
small; and, as we look, sLk — eight — ten — four- 
teen drop quickly into the capacious chimney, 
while the rest keep on in their dizzy whirl more 
madly than before. One or two pretend to go 
in, fluttering coquettishly for an instant at the 
opening, only to dash off again into the free air 
with triumphant energy. A Utde steadying of 
tiny bodies by quivering wings for the descent, 
and nine more plunge in, not precisely head- 
first, but still in such tumultuous and quick 
succession that MOhcent wonders how all can 
possibly setde comfortably so soon. Then fol- 
low six more ; those outside still flashing through 
their circle as if intoxicated wath the joy of 
motion. Group after group pitches in, until we 
imagine that the whole chimney must be soUdly 
packed with them ; but the numbers above still 
fly on, to all appearance undiminished. 

Twilight grows deeper; MUlicent's bromi 
eyes are heavy, and she rests her. head 
against my shoulder as we watch; but she 
wishes to wait until the last little swallow shall 
be comfortably tucked into his sooty bed before 
she goes to her white one. 

At last the circling procession is really thin- 
ning. We can see that fewer remain outside, 
while the in-tumbling groups grow more fre- 

Fourteen — eighteen — twenty now dive in at 
once. Finally all are safely stowed away but 
one, which flies around the house and bams for 
several minutes more, as if searching for stray 
children needing care. 

The sky is almost dark now, but very soon 
against the ashes of western brightness this 
faithful little guardian flutters above the well- 
filled chamber, then, hesitating an instant, peace- 
fully drops in, and only the piping of frogs breaks 
the silence of the spring evening. 

Would it not be entertaining to quietly open 
that chimney, as Audubon opened the old syca- 
more tree in Kentucky, and see the many httle 
bodies hanging close together by their claws — 
supported as well by their sharp tail-feathers 
— upon the black walls ? 

In former years these swallows always occu- 
pied hollow trees and other natural openings, 
hanging, as now, methodically side by side. But 
they choose, in these days, almost exclusively, 
cliimneys for their home, building their nests of 
twigs cemented by saliva, and raising two broods 
of young each season. 

E.xcept when it rains, this performance, which 
I have described to you, goes on every night. 
In rainy evenings we watch for them in vain. 
Perhaps they go to bed very early in the after- 
noon — at all events they have no sunset pa- 
rade. But night after night, when the sky is 
clear, come the twittering, and the fluttering, 
and the sweeping circle with its occasional re- 
verse — the tumbling into the chimney in 
groups; and finally the lone little sentinel 
searching the quiet evening air. 

And one season we counted them every 
night for three weeks — two of us independ- 
ently writing down the number in each group 
as it went in. One of us has a mathematical 
mind, while the other has not ; but, nevertheless, 
the two results came out within twent)- of each 
other every time. And how many do you think 
there were ? How many Uttle bedfellows 
dropped into that old chimney, while a silver- 
haired couple sat alone in the quaint cottage 
rooms below, listening to the birds' shrill good- 
nights ? 

" 'Leven or seventeen," said a little girl who 
had not watched them -with us, but who was in- 
terested in guessing. 

" Sixty or eighty," answered an older friend. 

There were between eight hundred and 
twenty, and eight hundred and forty; and 
Audubon tells even more surprising tales of 
the niunber of birds found crowded together. 




The shrill wind blew about the house 
And through the pines all night : 

The whirled across the fields 
And hid the fence from sight . 

By dawn the drifts had blown so deep 
No horse nor sleigh could go : 

The dog-house and the chicken -coops 
Were buried in the snow . 

There was no thought of school tha t day ; 

We worked witn shovels all , 
And cleared a path from house to barn ; 

The snow was like a wall . 

I wished our house was covered up , 
Like that one in the book 

My Grandma showed to me one day 
Beside the chimney-nook . 

The story said the chimney-pot 
Just showed above the snow , 

And all day long the lamps were lit 
Down in the house below . 




Bv Helen Thayer Hutcheson 

t/|Vi '^1- 

■'IV *. 


To-day in the garden I heard a complaining, 
And little tears dripping as if it were raining. 
And there sat a Lady-bug 
S^^.^*^^- "i^ under a leaf, 

"*'"'■ ""^ With a Spider's-web handker- 

chief, sobbing with grief! 
I stopped all astonished and 

asked her, " What is it ? " 
And she said, " Little Allie 's 
gone off on a visit 
For six weary weeks, and oh ! how shall I 

bear it ! 
The sunshine 's not bright without Allie to 
share it." 

I met an old Crow in the midst of the 

He stood on one 
leg like a sulky 
black shadow, 
And croaked as 
he stood there, 
so solemn and 
" Allie is gone till 
the first of 
October ! " 
The Bumble-bee heard it, the foolish old 

How Allie was 
gone for the 
rest of the 
" Six weeks with- 
out Allie ! I 
wish they 
were over ! " 
He boomed 
out his grief 
in the depths 
of the clover. 
The Wren wiped his eye with the tip of his 
Vol. XVII.— 26. 

I 'd rather have six weeks of hard, rainy 

weather ! " 
The Rose in the woods told her buds to stop 

' For Allie can't see them and what 's the use 

growing ! " 
There was also a Firefly, young and romantic. 
When he heard she was gone, he was very 

near frantic ; 
A-thinking of 

Allie he sat up 

all night, 
And wept till his 

tears nearly 

put out his 


A Butterfly, too, with 

some gold on his 

When he heard that Allie 

had gone to the springs, 
Was cross as a griffin for half of an hour. 
And made up a face at a sweet little flower, 
A dear Httle Lily that grew in the valley. 
And told it, it was not so pretty as Allie. 

Now, there was a green Grasshopper sat in 

the stubble, 
Sat still there and listened, with long legs bent 

And when all the creatures had finished their 

She set off a-hopping without ever stumbling ; 
She left bugs 

and birds, W 

bees and x i f// 

blossoms \Y(,!Mf'\: 

she van 

" I '11 hop till I find her ! 

'-^W^- ^ 




By HtLiiN Thayer Hutcheson. 

.\RER and clearer than monarch and minister, 
Rabble that gabble and hypocnte sinister, 
Warriors and sages of far-away ages, 
Arc the Fools that flit through the historical 

They gazed somewhat dazed . a 

through their patches r^^ 
and i)owder, ^ ^ 

I'hey wondered and blundered and ever 

laughed louder ; 
While crown tumbled down, and while 

creed flew to pieces, j^ 

Their range was the change of their daily 

While savage did ravage and bigotry tortured, 
They rambled or gambled, or planted an orchard. 
They clicked the light heel in the strathspey and reel. 
Built castles, held wassails, chased moths, and played tennis; 
Broke the lance for fair France, and went 
masked in gay Venice. 

They spent as they went, and were reckless of 

Bade defiance to science, and scoffed at the 

Had their flings at their kings, and were pert to 

the proudest; 
Must joke if they spoke, and themselves laughed 

the loudest; 



Winking and wooing, whatever was doing, 

Though storms of reforms and rebelhons were brewing. 

Talking and mocking the age that they grew in, 

They quaffed the gay draught round the red fires of ruin. 

Smihng and sneering, they flit out of hearing. 
They bow themselves airily out of our pages ; 

No sound underground of their 
jesting and jeering, 
The dear litde Fools of 
the far-away ages ! 



Can marble rest heavy on all that gay bevy, 

Who parted light-hearted, and knew no returning ? 

Are there ghosts full of laughter that haunt the hereafter, 
Too mocking for bliss, and too merry for burning ? 

Remember — forget them — it never will fret them, 

Who gibed at misfortune whenever she met them ; 

At joust and at revel cast care to the devil. 

And lived all their lives on whoever 
would let them. 

Concede them the meed that is due the departed ! 

Slight thinker, deep drinker, lax friend, and light lover ; 

A tear not too tender, for they were light-hearted; 

A laugh not too loud, for their laughter is over; 

A prayer light as air for the dead and gone Fools, 

Too light and too slight to be tyrants or tools ! 

Who with jest and with zest took the world as they found it ; 

Perhaps they did best just by dancing around it ! 



Bv Helen Thavek Hutcheson. 

Servian hearths the Christmas fire 
Did slowly molder and expire. 
In Servian hearts there glowed a flame 
N'o time shall (juench, no tyrants tame. 

Through royal Petersburg the Czar 
Rode in his slow, triumphal car ; 
The Christmas bells rang loud and sweet 
Before the Liberator's feet. 

At liutharest. where snow lay white 
Beneath the friendly veil of night, 
Was ushered in, \vith captive state, 
The vanquished of the Czar and fate 

His brow was stern — on Plevna's plain 
The snow fell fast upon the slain, 
The Prophet's standards fled to sea; 
Roumania — Sersia — they are free! 

Roumania's daughter, unaw^are, 
Had caught the glance of stem despair ; 
She smiled on him with childish grace. 
The vanquished tyrant of her race ; 

[This poem recounts an incident at the time of the Russian victory which hberated Christian Servia and Rou- 
mania from Moslem rule. Osman Pasha commanded the Turks in the defense of Plevna during the war between 
Russia and Turkey. Though Plevna was taken, he had shown himself so brave and skillful as to win the admi- 
ration even of his enemies. While Osman was a prisoner, and on his way through Bucharest, the capital of 
Roumania, a little Roumanian girl, touched by his dejected expression, ran forward and placed a flower in the hand 
of the defeated general. ] 



For comfort in this bitter hour 
She laid within his hand a flower ; 
The captive's eyes with tears were dim, 
He kissed the lips that smiled on him. 


Sweet pledge of peace, and debt confessed 
Between oppressor and oppressed ! 
An echo thrilling Moslem pride : 
■ Good-will to men at Christmas-tide." 

The Crescent wanes — the Star ascends — 
The reign of force and terror ends ; 
And love hath overcome the sword 
Upon the Birthday of the Lord. 



Bv Helkn Thayer Hutcheson. 

I THINK I lie by the lingering Nile, 
I think I am one that has lain long while, 
My lips sealed up in a solemn smile, 
In the lazy land of the loitering Nile. 

I think I lie in the Pyramid, 
And the darkness weighs on the closed eyelid, 
And the air is heavy where I am hid, 
With the stone on stone of the Pyramid. 

I think there are graven godhoods grim, 
That look from the walls of my chamber dim, 
And the hampered hand and the muffled limb 
Lie fixed in the spell of their gazes grim. 

I think I lie in a languor vast, 
Xumb, dumb soul in a body fast, 
Waiting long as the world shall last. 
Lying cast in a languor vast 

Lying muffled in fold on fold, 
With the gum and the gold and the spice enrolled. 
And the grain of a year that is old, old, old, 
Wound around in the fine-spun fold. 

The sunshine of Eg)'pt is on my tomb ; 
I feel it warming the srill, thick gloom. 
Warming and waking an old perfume. 
Through the carven honors upon my tomb. 

The old sunshine of Egypt is on the stone ; 
And the sands lie red that the wind hath sown. 
And the lean, lithe lizard at play alone 
SHdes like a shadow across the stone. 

And I lie with the Pyramid over my head, 
I am Ipng dead, lying long, long dead, 
With my days all done, and my words all said, 
And the deeds of my days written over my head. 


Many of our readers will have noticed, in the 
volume of St. Nicholas for the past year, sev- 
eral poems signed by a new name, that of Helen 
Thayer Hutcheson. In the preceding pages 
of this number, we print four more by the same 
author. The sixteen poems published up to 
this date reveal so remarkable a talent, and 
show so unusual a range, that we desire to call 
the attention of our readers (and especially, per- 
haps, that of our older readers) to work, the fine- 
ness of which might not receive its due appre- 
ciation in the haste of ordinary reading. 

These poems were written by a young girl, 
whose short life was most uneventful, and 
whose experiences were bounded by the small 
circle of a quiet home. Verses like "A Christ- 
mas Letter," " To-day in the Garden," " A 
Wee World of My Own," or " Discovered " 
are, perhaps, only the light singing of a happy 
heart. But it is singing in perfect harmony with 
the tune set by the winds and waters, and the 
trill of birds. " The Song of the Caged Canary " 
shows a more finished art, and is rich with the 
warmth of color and sweetness of sound that 
fill •• the land sun-haunted." " The Days of the 
Daisies," again, fairly dances down the page, in 
the airiest, gayest, most fantastical measure, so 
that one has but to close one's eyes to see myri- 
ads of white and gold heads nodding and sway- 
ing to the pipe of the wind, and to smell the 
warm earth of the June meadows. " The Last 
Cricket" is, with its playful pathos, a dainty 
little bit of melody, still different in character- 
istics. But of the poems in this January number 
of St. Nicholas, two — "A King in Egypt," 
and "The Fools' Waltz " — are so unusual and of 
so high merit, that they are, doubtless, the young 
poet's latest and most considered work. Full 
of simplicity, truth, and imagination, showing an 
increasing mastery of form and a growing sense 
of the beauty and capacity of English song, these 
poems justify our belief that had Helen Hutch- 
eson Hved she would have taken acknowledged 
rank with the leading poets of the time. 

Yet so unconscious of exceptional powers was 

she that it seems never to have occurred to her 
to print her poems ; and it was only after she 
had passed beyond the sound of the world's 
praise, that the world knew what high praise she 
had deserved. After her death the loving friends 
who had kept all her manuscripts since her 
earliest childhood were persuaded to allow these 
poems to be printed ; and to meet a natural de- 
sire that something might be known of the life 
of the young poet, one who dearly cherishes her 
memory has kindly furnished the following brief 
but sympathetic sketch. — Editor St. Nicholas. 

Near a pretty village of the West, on a gentle 
slope overlooking a river where sparkling waters 
shimmer through the foliage of over-arching 
trees, stands a many-gabled cottage — the 
birthplace and early home of Helen Thayer. 

Lovely scenery, groves full of wild birds, 
gardens, domestic pets, story-books, and loving 
parents formed a happy little world in which 
her young spirit, like a tender bud, began a 
growth that afterward blossomed into rare 
sweetness and beauty. 

In her early childhood, with her fairy-like 
form, golden-brown curls, and delicate face 
brimming with life and intelligence, she seemed 
some ethereal being from a brighter realm. 

Before the pleasant paths of learning opened 
to her, she amused herself as an only child 
may who is left much to its own resources. 
She added to her play-houses whole menager- 
ies of animals which she cut out of card-paper ; 
dressed up her kittens like little old ladies ; 
taught pet grasshoppers to walk a tight rope 
stretched above the window sill ; and rocked 
her dolls to lullabies of her own composing. 
She was, in truth, a little improvisatrice, and 
often walked the floor chanting original stories 
in verse, unheard and unnoticed, as she 

A few years later, her surroundings had 
changed, and she was far away from the cot- 
tage where she was bom. In her new home 
in the environs of Washington, her young soul 



continually grew in the love of the good, the 
true, and the beautiful. She was always the 
brave champion of the weak and oppressed ; 
ready to bestow her dearest possession on any 
child less fortunate than herself, and tenderly 
humane toward every helpless, sufiering thing, 
bird, beast, or insect. With an artist's hand 
and a ])oet's soul, amid ordinary childish em- 
ployments, every day brought forth some new 



device or fancy, in picture or verse. Logical 
withal, and possessing a rare gift of language, 
she often amused and interested her elders 
with her apt reasonings on the more serious 
questions of life. 

Her parents, finding the excitement of school 
life injurious, decided that most of her educa- 
tion must be carried on under the home roof — 
especially as the national capital with its vast 
library and other public institutions furnished 
unusual facilities for self-culture. 

Living ^■ery much in the seclusion of her 
suburban home, close to the wild-wood, ram- 
bling or driving over hill and dale, peering into 
hidden nooks, and learning the sweet secrets 

of nature, it is not strange that she found that 
" Wee World " of her own, or discovered the 
•■ pale-tinted blossoms that nobody knew, saving 
the wind and the sun and the dew." 

i\Liny poems written between the ages of ten 
and fifteen show that life passed happily, rich 
in bright fancies, and pleasantly divided between 
study and recreation. 

Helen Thayer composed verses almost from 
her babyhood, " making them up," indeed, before 
her small hands had learned how to write down 
the |)leasant fancies that came into the little 
curly head. Even these childish verses showed 
how full of sunshine was her life and how much 
she lived in a land of her own fancies. But by 
the time she was twelve, her poetry began to 
indicate that it was the work of a true poet. 
For a poet is a maker of beautiful realities in 
the world of imagination, which prosaic peoi)le 
would never be able to see for themselves, but 
which they are glad of, and much the richer for, 
when the poet has ])resented them. 

Soon came high anfl pure friendships to en- 
large and brighten her young world ; especially 
the love of one whom she delighted to call 
" sister," and whose charming little family was 
the source of many an inspiration. To see her 
the center of that lovely group with her slight 
figure, fair young face, and shining hair — her 
fingers deftly weaving " daisy chains " or trac- 
ing humorous sketches — her young auditors 
entranced with the words that fell from her 
lips — was to see a picture not easily forgotten. 

A young friend, pure and sweet like herself, 
speaks of her as " one who lived among the 
flowers of the wild-wood, one with them, in- 
teq^reting their beauty and sweetness into pic- 
tures and language — traces," she adds, "of the 
sojourning among us of a fair spirit passed for- 
ever beyond the perishable." 

She died at the early age of twenty-six. And 
her sweet life brightened to its close, for the halo 
of a love rare and tender, doing homage to her 
womanhood, tinged all her sky with rose color, 
which never darkened, but merged into the 
light of Heaven, whose glory she entered on the 
morning of April 29, 1886. 


By Edmund Alton. 

Seventh Paper * Union may deal directly, through their execu- 
tives or other officers, with one another; but 

FOREIGN INTERCOURSE. they have . no standing, as independent sover- 
eignties, before the nations of the earth. In 

The sovereign relations between empires of matters international, their poUtical influence is 

the past led to the early recognition of certain unknown ; the authority of the Republic has 

general rules of right which have come down to then full sway.t An American abroad flour- 

the nations of to-day with the supreme force ishes his passport as " a citizen of the United 

and dignity of established public law. The States." 

authority of every government is absolute Following time-honored and universal fashion, 

within its own dominions, and as far as a can- we have, located in various parts of the world, 

non-shot from shore. The ocean is free to all. numerous agents who, under the direction of the 

Our rights at home and on the high seas rest Secretary of State, keep watch on foreign matters 

not upon mere international courtesy and con- of interest to our people — nearly all of the foreign 

sent, but upon principles of natural reason, powers thus recognized reciprocating by send- 

sanctioned by centuries of observance. The ing to the United States (as, also, to other coun- 

privileges enjoyed by the United States beyond tries with whom they have commercial and 

the seas, and accorded to its citizens sojourning political intercourse) similar representatives for 

in foreign lands, — Uke those e.xtended by us, in like purposes. These agents are divided into 

turn, to other powers, — are such as belong to two branches, — the diplomatic service and the 

every people under the same unwritten " Law of consular service, — each with distinct functions. 

Nations," or as are expressly secured by written The diplomatic agents reside at the capitals of 

covenants between our Government and the nations and constitute " embassies," or " lega- 

govemments concerned. tions " ; the various embassies, or legations, of 

To the Federal Power, as remarked in the different states collected at any capital consdtut- 

first chapter of this series, has been confided the ing the " Diplomatic Corps " at that place, 

exclusive care and conduct of these foreign in- They are missionaries from state to state. They 

terests. In their domestic relations, and within represent their respective countries as political 

the limits of the Constitution, the States of the sovereignties, and carry to their posts their 

* For the sixth paper of this series (which dealt with the organization of the State Department), see St. Nicholas 
fur April, 18S9. 

t " No State shall enter into any treaty, alliance, or confederation " ; and, " No State shall, without the consent 
of the Congress . . . enter into any agreement or compact with another State or with a foreign power, or engage 
in war, unless actually invaded, or in such imminent danger as will not admit of delays." — (Constitution, Article 
I., Section X.) This distinction between State and Federal authority is illustrated in the matter of fugitives from 
justice. " A person charged in any State with treason, felony, or other crime, who shall flee from justice and be 
found in another State, shall, on demand of the executive authority of the State from which he fled, be delivered 
up, to be removed to the State ha^'ing jurisdiction of the crime." — (Constitution, Article IV., Section II.) In sucha 
case, the demand is made directly by the authorities of one State upon the authorities of the other. But where a 
person fleeing from the vengeance of a State takes refuge in a foreign country, the State appeals to the State De- 
partment of the United States, which thereupon makes demand for the surrender of the fugitive. These matters 
are provided for in what are known as our " extradition treaties " with other nations, which vary as to the classes of 
crimes for which persons may be extradited ; although, in certain instances, from sentiments of international comity, 
fugitives have been surrendered by foreign governments, upon our demand, in the absence of any treaty provision 
covering the particular cases. 

Vol. XVII.— 27. • 233 




national credentials, or " letters of credence," 
certifymg to their official character, and re- 
questing that full faith and credit be given to 
their words when speaking for the government 
they represent. They hold direct corrununica- 
tion with the government to which they are 
accredited, and it is their office to cultivate in- 
ternational friendship, to negotiate treaties, and 
to adjust international disputes that may arise. 

The consular officers, on the other hand, are 
stationed at numerous ports and other business 
centers abroad, and have no official deaUngs (ex- 
cept in special circumstances) with the sovereign 
power of the country wherein they reside. They 
represent their countrymen regarded as individ- 
uals and not as a political sovereignty, — looking 
after commercial interests and individual rights 
and leaving to the diplomatic agents of their 
government all questions of state. 

Under rules formally agreed upon by the 
powers of Europe, at the International Con- 
gresses of Vienna and Aix la Chapelle (held in the 
early part of the present century), and adopted 
by the Government of the United States, diplo- 
matic agents are divided into four classes: (i) 
ambassadors, legates, or nuncios; (2) envoys, 
ministers, or other persons accredited to sov- 
ereigns ; (3) ministers resident ; and (4) charges 
d'affaires accredited to ministers for foreign 
affairs. Ambassadors, legates, and nuncios 
possess what is styled the " representative " 
character. They are supposed to represent the 
person of the prince by whom they are sent, 
and as such to be entitled to hold direct per- 
sonal audience \vith the sovereign to whom they 
are accredited. Our Government neither sends 
nor receives diplomats of this grade. Legates 
and nuncios represent the Pope, with whom we 
have no political relations, and who therefore 
has no agent at AVashington ; and as we have 
not seen fit to attach the title of ambassador to 
any of the representatives sent out by us, we 
have been honored with no ambassadors from 
other states. In point of fact, this representa- 
tive distinction is of little practical value so far 
as it confers the privilege of direct approach to 
the throne, for diplomatic business is transacted 
nowadays through the Foreign Office of every 
leading government and not through personal 
audiences vnih the sovereign head. Sdll, it 

humors the vanity of a diplomat to be called 
ambassador ; the title gives him precedence on 
ceremonial occasions, and at some capitals it 
gives him precedence in securing audience with 
the minister for foreign affairs. The United 
States, in its treatment of the Diplomatic Corps 
at Washington, disregards the question of tide 
in matters of business. The ministers take rank 
in the diplomatic body according to the order 
in which they arrive at the Seat of Govern- 
ment and present their credentials, and as to 
interviews with the Secretary of State they 
are admitted to the audience-room in the 
order in which they reach the Department and 
present their cards on " Diplomatic Day." A 
similar rule as to audiences is recognized at St. 
Petersburg, Berlin, and elsewhere, but the fact 
that it is not universally observed places our 
representatives occasionally at a disadvantage. 
In some countries a minister of the United 
States may wait for hours in the anteroom of the 
Foreign Office to gain an interview on some 
state matter of the liveliest importance ; and at 
the very last moment, when those outranking 
him in title have come and gone and he is about 
to take his turn, the representative of some insig- 
nificant Asiatic power, who has just arrived with 
no other object perhaps than to exchange a few 
idle w-ords with the minister for foreign affairs, 
goes in ahead, simply because he is styled 
" ambassador," and the representative of the 
great American Republic may have the door of 
the audience-room closed in his face for the day. 
This consideration has been the strong plea of 
those who urge that our diplomatic representa- 
tives to the great powers should be given loftier 
titles, to put them on a business equality with 
other legations at the same courts. 

Our diplomatic ser\'ice to-day, numbering 
upward of sixty men (not counting ordinary em- 
ployees in the service of legations), consists of en- 
voys extraordinary and ministers plenipotentiary 
(a compound title), ministers resident, charges 
d'affaires, secretaries of legation, and inter- 
preters ; w'ith now and then an officer detailed 
from the War or Navy Department and attached 
to a legation as military or naval attache, 
for the purpose of studying and reporting to 
this Government the militar)' movements of 
foreign powers. It also includes a diplomatic 


"American secretary," two "translators and 
attaches," six " attaches," and two " mihtary 
attaches," — the minister being accredited to 
Spain and to Peru as well as to the United 
States. Japan is represented there by an envoy 
extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary, a sec- 
retary, counselor, attache, naval attache, and 

Besides envoys extraordinary and ministers 
plenipotentiary, and one or more secretaries 
each, Spain has two civil attaches, Russia a 
technical attache, Great Britain a civil attache 
and a naval attache, and Germany a chancellor 
and assistant chancellor. Turkey has an envoy 
extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary, and a 
secretary of legation ; and (passing the represen- 
tarives of other countries without comment) 
even Corea, as above noted, sends a complete 
force headed by a minister of high rank — an 
envoy extraordinary and minister plenipoten- 
tiary, known on the register of the State Depart- 
ment as Pak Chung Yang ; a "second secretary," 
now acting as " charge d'affaires ad interim" Mr. 
Ye Ha Yung; another " second secretary," Mr. 
Ye Sang Jay; an "attache," Mr. Kang Chin 
He, and a "foreign secretary." 

The consular service of the United States 
numbers upward of a thousand men, classified 
as agents and consuls-general, consuls-general, 
vice-consuls-general, deputy consuls-general, 
consuls, vice-consuls, deputy consuls, commer- 
cial agents, vice-commercial agents, deputy 
commercial agents, consular agents, consular 
clerks, interpreters, marshals, and clerks at con- 
sulates.* Consuls-general, consuls, and com- 
mercial agents are full, principal, and permanent 
consular officers (the title of commercial agent 
being peculiar to our system), as distinguished 
from deputy consuls and consular agents, who 
are subordinate officers, and vice-consuls and 
vice-commercial agents, who are consular offi- 
cers substituted temporarily to fill the places of 
consuls-general, consuls, or commercial agents 
during the absence of their principals. A 
consul-general is charged with the ordinary 
duties of a consul within the limits of his dis- 
trict, and with the supervision of the consulates 

* In addition to these, there are guards, prison-keepers, and minor employees. The term " consular officer," 
as used by Congress, includes " consuls-general, consuls, commercial agents, deputy consuls, vice-consuls, vice- 
commercial agents, and consular agents, and none others." 

agent at Cairo, with the title of " agent and 
consul-general." The position of Egypt as a 
semi-independent power prevents us from estab- 
lishing a legation there ; but as we have diplo- 
matic relations with that country to a limited 
extent, we employ the term " agent " for what- 
ever it may be worth ; it is not recognized in 
European diplomacy. A representative to an 
independent sovereignty should have a tide 
known to the rules laid down at the Congresses 
of Vienna and Aix la Chapelle. 

It is the privilege of every government to 
decide for itself in fixing the grade of its 
representatives regardless of the importance 
or unimportance of the mission, but ordinary 
courtesy would prevent us from sending an 
ambassador to Seoul and only a charge d'affaires 
to Berlin. Among the great powers com- 
pliments are even. They give what they are 
given in the way of chief diplomatic officers. 
Small powers, while equal to the mightiest in 
point of law, are not so fastidious. The head 
of our legation at Berlin is an envoy extraor- 
dinary and minister plenipotentiary ; the chief 
representative of Germany, at Washington, is 
also an envoy extraordinary and minister 
plenipotentiary. We send to Seoul a minister 
resident and consul-general ; Corea, however, 
outdoes us in style by sending to Washington 
a representative of the second grade. 

At Berlin we have, besides an envoy extraor- 
dinary and minister plenipotentiary, a secre- 
tary of legation, and a second secretary of 
legation; the same is true of our legations at 
London, Paris, Peking, and Tokei, the last two 
posts being further re-enforced by an interpreter 
each. At each of the several posts of St. 
Petersburg, Vienna, Madrid, Constantinople, 
Buenos Ayres, Rome, Mexico, Rio de Janeiro, 
Lima, Bogota, Santiago, and Caracas, we are 
represented by an envoy extraordinary and min- 
ister plenipotentiary and a secretary of lega- 
tion ; the legation at Constantinople having 
also an interpreter. 

The Chinese legation at Washington embraces 
an envoy extraordinary and minister plenipoten- 
tiary, a " first secretary," two " secretaries," an 



and commercial agencies subordinate to him, 
so far as that supervision can be exercised 
by correspondence. At present, we have con- 
sulates-general at .Vpia, Athens, Bangkok, Bel- 
grade, Berlin, Berne, Bogota, Bucharest, Cairo, 
Calcutta, Constantinople, Copenhagen, Frank- 
fort-on-the-Main, Guatemala, Guayaquil, Hali- 
fax, Havana, Honolulu, Kanagawa, La Paz, 
Lisbon, London, Matamoros, Melbourne, Mex- 
ico, Monrovia, Montreal, Ottawa, Panama, 
Paris, Port-au-Prince, Rio de Janeiro, Rome, 
Seoul, Shanghai, Saint Petersburg, Teheran, and 
Vienna. But to locate all the other posts in 
our consular system would be to send my read- 
ers on a geographical hunt through the four 
quarters of the globe. We have a consul at 
Liverpool and another at Hong-Kong; consuls 
at Belfast, Havre, Antwerp, Bremen, Munich, 
Trieste, and Bagdad, — others at Rosario, Co- 
quimbo, Helsingfors, Muscat, Gor^e-Dakar, Pa- 
ramaribo, Tegucigalpa, and Padang. We have 
commercial ageftts at Castelamare, Reichenberg, 
and Butaritari, and also at Levuka, Boma, and 
Gaboon. We have consular agents at Alexan- 
dretta, Moulmein, Pago-pago, Arica, and Fiume, 
at Dyrefjord and at Pugwash, at Lanzarote, 
Laraiche, Terceira, Latakia, .\cajuila, and Wau- 
baushene, at Akyab, Mansourah, Ritzebiittel, 
Hodeida, Corcubion, Bucaramanga, Bani-saf, 
Saffi, Scjerabaya, and Tai-wanfoo, to say noth- 
ing of such places as Assioot, Bassein, Iloilo, 
Llanelly, Rostoff, Majonga, Richibucto, and 
Penang ! 

Great Britain has a consul-general residing 
at New York, and consuls, vice-consuls, and 
other consular officers at New York, Baltimore, 
New Orleans, Boston, San Francisco, Galveston, 
Richmond, Eastport, Chicago, St. Paul, Eureka, 
Denver, San Diego, Mobile, and other places 
within the United States. And at the same or 
different American ports and inland cities, we 
find consular officials of var)ing grades, in the 
service of France, Germany, Russia, Turkey, 
China, and other powers, including a consul- 
general of the Orange Free States stationed at 

Philadelphia and a consul of the principality of 
Monaco located at New York. 

Without attempting to go over, by name, the 
various countries with whom we exchange diplo- 
matic or consular officers, it may be said, gener- 
ally, that the interests of the people of the United 
States, as a j3olitical sovereignt)' and as individ- 
uals, are represented, in one way or the other, at 
all the principal capitals and trade centers of the 
world, and that all the principal foreign states, 
civilized, half-civilized, and barbaric, are repre- 
sented here. The exchange, however, is not 
entirely uniform or reciprocal. We send, for 
instance, no diplomatic agent to the Barbary 
States ; but our riglits are guarded by a consul 
and a vice-consul at Tangiers, and by seven con- 
sular agents at seven other towns within that 
region. The Barbary States, on the other hand, 
are not represented in the United States ; the 
same is true of Madagascar, to whom we send 
several consular officials, and of Egypt and Rou- 
mania, to whom we send both diplomatic and 
consular representatives. Bolivia, Honduras, 
Liberia, Paraguay, Salvador, Santo Domingo, 
Servia, Siam, and Uruguay have only consular 
officials in the United States, whereas we have 
both classes of representatives within those 
realms. But these and other discrepancies may 
be accounted for by the special political or busi- 
ness relations of the countries involved. Canada, 
of course, Uke other provinces of Great Britain, 
looks to the Imperial Goxemment for the pro- 
tection of her interests here; and while our 
consular service stretches through British Amer- 
ica, and British India, and AustraUa, and through 
other parts of Britain's vast dependencies and 
possessions, in the negotiation of treaties or set- 
tlement of international conflicts relating to any 
of those lands the diplomatic authorities at 
\Vashington and London, representing the two 
high sovereign states, alone have power to act. 
And so in our intercourse with other communi- 
ries and dominions, save where treaty provisions 
or exceptional conditions may modify the gen- 
eral rule. 

(To be continued.) 


By W. T. Bull. 

LTHOUGH numerous arti- 
cles have been written on the 
game of foot-ball, as played 
at our colleges at the present 
time, the subject has invari- 
ably been treated generally, 
and no one particular feature, 
important as it may be, has ever been accorded 
any special attention. 

The drop-kick is, of all the different features, 
by far the most important and telling factor, 
when employed by an experienced player ; but 
when attempted by a novice, it becomes at 
once dangerous and demoralizing to the rest of 
the players, to the rush line in particular. 

The instances on record are numerous where 
the drop-kick has saved the day, or, at. least, 
contributed largely to victory. What better 
proof of the above assertion could be had than 
the story of the Yale-Harvard game played in 
1880 at Cambridge? The score was a tie, 
neither side having been able to secure the lead, 
when, at the close of the last half, just a moment 
before time was called, Mr. Camp secured a goal 
from the field by means of the drop-kick. Will 
the Yale team of '87 ever forget the assurance 
and general " We-have-got-the-game-sure " man- 
ner of the Harvard team as they disported 
themselves on the eve of the great battle ? Can 
they ever recall without shuddering how the 
Harvard men came on the field that day, and, 
with a manner confident in the extreme, forced 
the Yale team into their own territory and in 
close pro.ximity to their goal ? But how quickly 
was the tide of battle changed, and this same 
spirit of confidence broken, when a goal from 
the field placed Yale in the lead by 5 points! 
Harvard made but one rally after that, and the 
effort was vain. 

Other instances might be cited, as, for ex- 
ample, when, in '84, Moffatt, of Princeton, kicked 
a goal from nearly the center of the field, but 

they would be mere repetitions, and it is inter- 
esting to inquire more particularly into this most 
efiicient factor. 

In the first place, what is a drop-kick ? The 
person making the try, drops the ball and kicks 
it after, or at the very instant, it strikes the 
ground. Simple as it seems, few people out- 
side of immediate college circles could explain 
it understandingly. This unfamiliarity with so 
elementary a point is surprising in view of the 
fact that foot-ball has become one of the most 
popular of American games. 

There are various ways of making the kick, 
but they vary essentially in two particulars only : 
the part of the foot used in kicking, and the 


position which the ball is made to assume on 
striking the ground. Of these different ways, 
three have been chosen as having proved emi- 


nently successful in championship games, and, 
as able exponents of each, might be cited, 
Camp of Yale, Moffatt of Princeton, and Wat- 
kinson, now deceased, who was one of Yale's 
famous players. 

Camp's style of kick, as illustrated in Fig. i, 
taken just before the ball is dropped, was to 
hold the ball in the right hand, turn his left side 
toward the goal, and, with a side swing of the 
right foot, plant the toe on the middle seam of 
the ball directly below the lacings. This style 
of kick has its advantages in that a greater 
swing of the leg can be attained, thus adding 
greater force ; but the mere fact of his holding 
the ball in one hand clearly shows, that, to be- 
come accurate in this style, one would have to 




devote more time and practice to this than to 
the others, where the left hand aids to keep the 
ball in the proper position. 

Moffatt held the ball in two hands in front 

of him, faced the goal, and dropped the ball 
with the upper end canted toward him at an 
angle, varying with the distance he intended 
to cover. (Fig. 2.) This style is both sure and 
quick, and diflers from Watkinson's style in one 
point only — the ball as held by the latter being 
canted in exacdy the opposite direction, and 
pointed directly for the goal. 

Watkinson's style, being much more famihar 
to me, will be explained more in detail. The 
ball is held in the fingers and thumb (both 
extended) of the right hand, — as in Fig. 3, — 
the left hand being placed on the upper and 
left side of the ball. The ball being thus held, 
the arms are extended fonvard and downward, 
while the ball is pointed, or sighted as it were, 
by the left hand. At the same time the trunk 
of the body is bent slightly forward, and the 
left leg is planted a little in advance of the 
right, so that it sustains, to a great extent, the 
weight of the body. The ball is then dropped, 
and at the same instant the right leg is drawn 
back, poised for one instant in the air, and then 
brought with a steady swing forcibly forward, 
meeting the ball at the moment it touches the 
ground, the trunk of the body at the same time 
being thrown back, turning on the hips, thus 
adding greater force to the kick. 

An example of kicking the ball with the side 
of the foot is best illustrated by citing Terry of 
Yale, who has a very novel way, quite his own, 
that he has employed with success, when very 
near the goal, about on the ten-yard line for 
example. He takes a position, as in Fig. 4, 
has the ball passed very low, receives it in his 
hands, arms extended forward at full length, 
and with a shoveling motion of the right foot, 
which scrapes along the ground, he scoops up 
(not kicks) the ball with the side of his foot. 

A cool head, quickness in kicking the ball, 
and dodging an opponent before kicking are 
indispensable adjuncts to success. It is easy 
to see, that for a man to stand facing eleven 
opponents not twenty yards away, upon whose 
faces are clearly portrayed a dogged determina- 
tion either to block the ball or upset him, 
must require a cool head and the power to con- 
centrate all his thoughts and energies on the 
ball about to be put in play. He can not do 
two things at the same time. Watching the 



ball and the men too, generally results in an 
ignominious muff, — a most dangerous accident, 
for, with only one man to back him up, prac- 
tically a clear field is left for the opposing side to 

ens a man's natural ability to dodge. It very 
often happens that his opponents reach him 
just about the time the ball does, so that it is 
quite necessary, before making the try, to dodge 
one or more of them. This dodging before 
kicking, of course, makes the kick more uncer- 
tain. Yet a reasonable amount of accuracy 
may be acquired by constant practice. 

A player, who tries for goals from the field, 
should combine three essential qualities : good 
judgment as to the right rime to kick and the 
distance to be covered, quickness in getting 
the ball away after it has been received from 
the quarter-back, and, finally, ability to dodge 
an opponent before making the try. This last 
point is quite necessary to success, for an oppo- 
nent is pretty sure to get through, on one side 
or the other, to intercept the kick. Therefore, 
it is important, in practicing the drop-kick, to 
have a man stand in front of the kicker, and, 
as the kick is made, block it if possible. Within 
the twenty-five-yard line where, in the man's 
judgment, a try for goal would be the right play, 
it is well to give the signal immediately after the 
second down, and in two cases out of three, 
unless tlie signal be known, the opponents will 

score a brilliant run. The necessity of quick- 
ness in kicking is aptly illustrated in the case of 
a certain noted player. Probably there are few, 
if any, players in the country, at the present 
time, who would compare favorably with him 
in a contest for accuracy and long-distance 
kicking; with, however, the proviso that an 
indefinite amount of time be allowed in which 
to kick the ball. But, in a game, this remark- 
able aptitude comes to naught ; and, without 
disparagement to him, his non-success in games 
should be attributed not to inability or igno- 
rance, but to that most unfortunate of habits 
into which players fall in pracrice, — taking 
their time about kicking the ball. Surely, if a 
man accustoms himself in daily pracrice to take 
plenty of time to direct the ball, arrange or plant 
himself, and watch his opponents at the same 
rime, he can not expect to go into a game and 
do exactly the opposite and srill hope for suc- 
cess. Either his kick will be blocked, or the 
ball will go wide of the mark. This bad habit 
of taking so much unnecessary time also dead- 

be taken unawares, will not be prepared for such 
a play, and consequently will not be in a posi- 
tion to prevent it. Thus the kicker has a free 
field, and generally can take plenty of time to 



assure the proper accurac)- and success of the 
kick. It is much the safer way to catch the ball 
in the arms, rather than in the hands, unless 
one has, by constant practice, acquired the lat- 
ter method. Undoubtedly, from a scientific 
standpoint, the latter is the better way, because 
time is saved by it; a most important advantage, 
for a ball received in the hands may be dropjied 
immediately, but, being caught in the arms, 
must be transferred to the hands first. Begin- 
ners, therefore, would do well to learn to catch 
in the hands. A very common mistake made 
by players, who recei\e the ball direcdy in the 
hands, is to shift their hands, and the ball too, 
in the endeavor to get it in the proper position 
for dropping. ."Ml this shifting is unnecessary, 
and wastes valuable time, so that in two cases out 
of three the outcome is that the ball is blocked. 

A simjjle movement of the arms alone, and a 
gentle turn of the ball in the right direction, as 
it is dropped, is all that is required, and not an 
instant of time is wasted. One great secret of 
success is to droj) the ball in exactly the posi- 
tion in wliich it is held by the hands. Both 
hands should be taken from the ball at the same 
time, for one can easily see that if either were 
taken off first the ball would be likely to tij) to 
one side and thus destroy the aim. The ball 
should be kicked the instant it touches the 
ground without waiting till it is in the air, 
otherwise much of the force of the kick will be 

By constant jjractice every man should be- 
come able to use the left foot as well as the 
right. Especially is ability to kick with either 
foot necessary when very near the goal. Such 
an attainment not only saves time by allowing the 
use of the left foot for kicks on the left of the goal, 
and vice versa, but it bothers the opponents. 
For example, a right tackle breaks through, 
and makes directly for the kicker. In this case 
the use of the right foot enables a man to kick 
without moving from his position, providing the 
ball comes all right and in time ; but in the use 
of the left foot, there is a possibility of kicking 

direcdy into the tackle. Thus a man who 
could use only his left foot would be forced to 
dodge the tackle first, and thus in a measure 
lose the accuracy of his aim, as well as valu- 
able time. 

The kicker should be the man to gi\e the 
signal for the drop, and he should be careful 
to give it before the team has lined-up, thus 
affording each man plenty of time to think about 
his special line of action, and enabling him to 
act upon that line promptly. For example, 
suppose the right half-back is to give the sig- 
nal. In this case, the back takes a position a 
little in the rear and to one side of him for the 
purpose of dropping on the ball, should the pass 
be a bad one, or be muffed, or the l)all be kicked 
into an opponent. The left half-back goes up 
into the rush line, and generally takes, as the 
man for him to block, an opposing half-back, 
or the quarter-back ; the quarter-back, after 
passing the ball, takes the first man he sees 
who has no one to oppose him. Generally this 
man will be one of the backs, or the quarter- 
back. But these different positions should never 
be taken until the ball is snapped by the center, 
otherwise the opponents will surely anticipate 
the play about to be attempted, and i)robably 
spoil it. 

It should not be supposed for a moment, 
however, that just because the signal for a kick 
has been given, a man is in duty bound to make 
the try, for oftentimes a rare opportunity will 
offer itself for a run around the ends. Then, 
too, the ball may come badly, the opponents be 
too close, or a dozen other contingencies arise, 
which forbid the kick. It is the abihty to judge 
of all these circumstances that makes the suc- 
cessful kicker, and the indifference to them the 
unsuccessful one. 

A man, then, who devotes his time and atten- 
tion to the thorough master)- of drop-kicking, 
becomes not only a sought-after player, but also 
one who, more frequently than any other, has 
at his very feet the opportunity of securing 
victory for his side. 



By Walter Camp. 


If there be anything that might make a 
momentary ripple upon the steady, resistless 
stream of New York life it should certainly be 
one of these foot-ball games. While there are 
plenty of base-ball enthusiasts, they possess their 
souls and their enthusiasm in patience before 
they reach, and after they leave, the grounds. 
But the collegian has no sense of repression, 
and his enthusiasm annually stirs up the sober, 
sedate dignity of Fifth Avenue from the Bruns- 
wick to the Park. A few years ago the wise- 
acres said : " No one will come to a game on 
Thanksgiving Day. New Yorkers will never 
give up their annual dinner for anything under 
the sun." At the latest game played on that day 
fifteen thousand people postponed their annual 
dinner to see the Yale- Harvard match. Perhaps 
nothing will better illustrate the pitch to which 
the interest has attained than to take the ride 
to the grounds, first with the spectators then 
with the team. Coaches have been bringing 
as high as a hundred and twenty-five dollars 
apiece for the day, and even at that price are 
Vol. XVII.— 28. 2-1 

engaged weeks before the contest. Stages are 
resorted to. The old 'bus appears in rejuven- 
ated habiliments, bedecked with great streamers 
of partisan colors, and freighted with the eager 
sympathizers of the red or the blue. Long 
before noon, tally-hos draw up before the up- 
town hotels and are soon bearing jolly parties 
out to the grounds, in order to make sure of 
a place close to the ropes. The corridors of 
the Fifth Avenue, Hoffman, and Windsor have 
for twelve hours been crowded by college boys 
eagerly discussing the prospects of the rival 
teams. Any word from the fortunate ones who 
are permitted to visit the teams is seized and 
passed from mouth to mouth as eagerly as 
if upon the outcome of the match hung the 
fate of nations. The condition of Jones's ankle 
is fraught with the utmost interest, and all the 
boys heave sighs of relief at hearing that he will 
be able to play. 

Having talked over the state of affairs all the 
evening, and until noon of the momentous day, 
each boy is thoroughly primed to tell his sister 




(and particularly his chum's sister) all about 
every individual member of his own team, as 
well as to throw in the latest gossip concerning 
the opponents. He is frequently interrupted 
in this conversation held on the top of the 
coach, by the necessity of slopping to cheer 
some house where his colors are displayed in 
the windows, or to salute some passing tally-ho 
from which the similarly colored ribbons dangle 
and banners wave. 

Arrived on the grounds, the coaches are 

Having followed the spectators out, and seen 
them safely and advantageously placed, let us 
ride back and return with one of the teams. We 
find the men (who have been confined all the 
morning between four walls in order to prevent 
their talking over the chances, and thus becom- 
ing anxious and excited) just finishing their 
luncheon. They eat but little, as, in spite of their 
assumed coolness, there is no player who is not 
more or less ner\'ous over the result. Hurriedly 
leaving the table, they go to their rooms and put 


drawn up in line, and while an.xiously awaiting 
the advent of the two teams, the appearance 
of each crimson or blue flag becomes an excuse 
for another three times three. And how smartly 
the boys execute their cheers ! The Yale crj' 
is sharper and more aggressive, but the Harvard 
boys get more force and volume into theirs. 
The fair faces of the girls are as flushed with 
excitement as are those of the men, and their 
hearts no less in the cheering. 

on their uniforms. One after another they 
assemble in the Captain's room, and, if one 
might judge from the appearances of their can- 
vas jackets and begrimed trousers, they are 
not a set of men to fear a few tumbles. Finally 
they all have appeared, the last stragglers still 
engaged in lacing up their jackets. The Cap- 
tain then says a few words of caution or encour- 
agement to them, as he thinks best. He is evi- 
dently in dead earnest, and so are they, for you 



might hear a pin drop as he talks in a low voice 
of the necessity of each man's rendering a good 
account of himself. Thoughtfully they file out of 
the room, troop dowTi the stairs, and out through 
the side entrance where the coach is waiting 
for them. Then the drive to the grounds, — 
very different from the noisy, boisterous one 
we have just taken with the admirers of these 
same men. Hardly a word is spoken after 
the first few moments, and one fairly feels the 
atmosphere of determination settling down upon 
them as they bowl along through the Park. 
Every man has his own thoughts and keeps 
them to himself, for they have long ago dis- 
cussed their rivals, and each man has mentally 
made a comparison between himself and the 
man he is to face, until there is little left to 
say. Now they leave the Park and rumble up 
to the big north gate of the Polo Grounds. As 
the\- crawl leisurely through the press of car- 
riages, everything makes way for them, and the 
people in line for tickets stare at the coach for a 
glimpse of the players. They are soon in, and 
jumping out at the dressing-rooms, run in and 
throw off outside coats, still keeping on the 
heavy sweaters. Now comes a slight uneasy 
delay, as it is not yet quite time to go out on 
the field lest their rivals keep them waiting there 
too long in the chill air. This is in truth the 
mauvais quart d'heure of the foot-ball player, 
for the men's nerves are strung to a high pitch. 
Perhaps some one begins to discuss a play or the 
signals, and in a few minutes the players are in 
a fair way to become thoroughly mixed, when 
the Captain utters a brief but expressive, " Shut 
up there, will you ? " and growls out something 
about all knowing the signals well enough if 
they '11 quit discussing them. A short silence 
follows, and then they receive the word to come 
out. As they approach the great black mass 
of people and carriages surrounding the ground, 
they feel the pleasant stimulus of the crisp fresh 
air, and their hearts begin to swell within them 
as they really scent the battle. Just as they 
break through the crowd into the open field, a 
tremendous cheer goes up from the throats of 
their friends, and the eager desire seizes them 
to dash in and perform some unusual deed of 
skill and strength. 

The Polo Grounds have fallen before the 


advance of city streets. That old inclosure, the 
scene of some most exciting college contests, 
will never again resound with the mad cheer 
of enthusiastic spectators, but there will be 
handed down to boys coming after, the mem- 
ory and stoiy of some grand old games, and 
there will always be a touch in common among 
the old players who saw service on those 

The Costume and Training. 

The old-fashioned woolen jersey has given 
place, in great measure, to the less comfortable 
but more serviceable canvas jacket. This 
change was first made by a team of Trinity 
College, of Hartford. There had been a few 
rumors afloat to the effect that there was a new 
foot-ball garment, made of canvas, which ren- 
dered it almost impossible to catch or hold the 
wearer. No one at the other colleges had paid 
much attention to 
this report, and it 
was not until the 
Trinity team stepped 
out of their dressing- 
rooms at Hamilton 
Park that the Yale 
men first saw the 
new canvas jackets. 
Strange enough they 
appeared in those 
early days, too, as 
the Trinity eleven 
marched out on the 
field in their white 
jackets laced up in 
front. It gave them 
quite a military air, 
for the jackets were 
cut in the bobtail 
fashion of the cadets. 
The men in blue 
looked contemptuously down upon the innova- 
tion upon the regulation jersey, and it was not 
until they had played for nearly half an hour, and 
had had many Trinity players slip easily through 
their fingers, that they were ready to admit that 
there was some virtue in the jacket. The Trin- 
ity men, bound to give the new costume a fair 





trial, had brought some grease out with them, 
and each jacket had been thoroughly besmeared. 
They were therefore as difficult to grasp as eels, 
and it was not until the Vale men had counter- 
acted tliis by grasping great handfuls of sand 
that they were able to do anything like suc- 
cessful tackling. This, then, was the beginning 
of the canvas jacket, and although the greas- 
ing process was not continued (in fact, it was 
stopped by the insertion of a rule forbidding it), 
the jacket itself was a true improvement, and it 
was not long before all the teams were wearing 
them. The superiority of the canvas jacket over 
the jersey lies in the fact that it gives much less 
hold for the fingers of the tackier, and also that 
it does not keep stretching until it offers an easy 
grasp, as does the jersey. 

The next article of the foot-baller's costume 
which demanded jjarticular attention was the 
shoe. Probably, in spite of all the trials and 
the great exercise of inventive faculty bestowed 
upon the sole of a foot-ball man's shoe, there is 
to-day no better device for all fields and all 
weathers than the straight cross-leather strips 
which were used in the first year of the sport. 
They are shown in diagram I of the accom- 
panying cut. One of the earliest plans was to 
lay out these strips in various dift'erent lines 
across the sole in order to j)resent an edge, no 
matter in what direction the foot was turned. 
This gave rise to as many styles as there were 
men on a team. The cuts show a few of these 
(diagrams II, III, IV). 

Rubber soles were also tried, but they proved 
heavy, and when the ground was wet they did 
not catch as well as the leather strips. We have 
not yet seen a trial made of the felt soles which 
are now used in tennis, but these probably 
would not answer for kicking, as they would 
not be sufficiently stiff. 

The trousers also have quite a historj-. At 
first, several of the teams wore woven knicker- 
bockers made of the same material as the 
jersey. These fitted them tight to the skin, 
and, although they ottered very little obstruction 
to the freedom of a man's gait, they neither were 
things of beauty nor did they prove much of a 
joy to the wearers, for when a hole was once 
started it spread most amazingly. Another 
serious feature was that when a game was played 

on frozen ground every tumble and slide left its 
mark not only on the trousers, but also on the 
j)layer's skin beneath, as these trunks offered 
almost no protection. The ne.xt remove from 
these " tights," as they were expressively called, 
was to flannel knickerbockers. These prevailed 
for a season, but they were not stout enough for 
the rough work of the game, and many a youth 
has needlessly enlisted the sympathy of the ten- 
der hearts in the audience, when his comrades 
gathered about him and bore him from the field, 
only, however, to reappear again — such a plucky 
young man ! — in a few moments. Some of the 
more knowing ones noticed that the trousers worn 
by the young man on his second apjjcarance were 
not the same as those in which he began the 
game. Corduroy was tried with no better re- 
sults than flannel. The most approved cloth 
now in use among the players is a sort of heavy 
fustian, and even these are thickly padded at 
the knees and along the sides of the thighs. 

The caps ran through a series of changes from 
a little skull-cap to the long-tasseled affair called 
a toboggan toque. Tiie only really serviceable 
innovation was a cap with a broad visor, to be 
worn by the backs and half-backs when facing 
the sun. The stockings are thicker than the)- 
used to be, but otherwise there has been no 
change. The foot-ball player of to-day puts on 
a suit of flannels underneath his uniform, and if 
his canvas jacket is a little loose or the day cold, 
he wears a jersey next the jacket on the inside. 

His shoes are of stout leather with straight 
strips across the soles ; and, if they have become 
a litde stretched from constant use, an extra pair 

of socks underneath the woolen ones gives his 
feet a more comfortable feeling. 

He is better dressed to avoid bruises than the 
old-time player, but the canvas jacket is hard to 
play in, and such men as the quarter-back, who 
have Httle opportunity to make runs but much 





stooping to do, still cling to the jersey. The 
back also can dispense with the canvas jacket 
if he finds it very irksome, but as a rule every 
one but the quarter is better dressed for service 
if in canvas rather than a jersey. 

To come to the more 
particular points of the 
diet and exercise suitable 
for a foot-ball player. 
Long experience has 
shown that men who are 
training for this sport 
must not be brought 
down too fine. The}' 
should be undertrained 
rather than overtrained. 
The reason for this is 
that an overtrained man 
becomes too delicate for 
the rough, hard work 

and percepribl)- loses his vigor after a few sharp 
struggles. The season of the year is favorable 
to good work, and it is not difficult to keep men 
in shape. They should be given a hearty break- 
fast of the regulation steaks, chops, stale bread ; 
nor will a cup of coffee hurt a man who has always 
been in the habit of having it. Fruit also can be 
had in the early part of the season, and it is an 
excellent thing to begin the breakfast. About 
ten or eleven o'clock the men should practice for 
a half hour or so. The rushers should be made 
to pass the ball, fall on it when it is rolling 
along the ground, catch short high kicks. They 
should also be put through some of their plays 
by signal. The half-backs and back practice 
punting and drop-kicking, not failing to do some 
place-kicking as well. The quarter-back should 
pass the ball for them and also do some passing 
on his own account in order to increase the ra- 
jjidity of his throwing as well as the distance to 
which he can pass the ball. The half-backs and 
back should be made to take all the fly catching 
they have time for, and it is best to have some 
one running toward them while they are per- 
forming the catch, that they may become ac- 
customed to it. A very light lunch should be 
served at about one o'clock. It should consist 
of cold meats, toast, warm potatoes, eggs if 
agreeable ; in fact, no great restriction should be 

placed upon the appetite of the men at any of 
the meals except where certain things manifestly 
disagree wath certain individuals. Nothing very 
hearty should be given them at noon, however. 
At half-past two — or, better, at three — they 


should Start for the grounds and then play 
against a scrub team for an hour and a half. 
When they have had their baths, and been well 
rubbed down, it is about five o'clock, and in an 
hour from that time they will eat more dinner 
than any other set of men in training. No al- 
coholic beverages are permissible except for par- 
ticular cases, as, for a man who is getting too 
" fine " a little ale is not out of the way and 
may give him a better appetite and better night's 
rest. Plenty of sleep is indispensable. One 
other feature should be mentioned, which is, 
that as the rule for foot-ball games is " play, 
rain or shine," a team must practice in bad 
weather. Notwithstanding the fact that one 
would naturally predict colds for the men from 
practice in the rain, experience teaches quite 
the opposite. A cold is almost unheard of, and 
when it does occur is always traceable directly 
to some foolish exposure after the playing is 
over ; as, for instance, remaining in the wet 
clothes. This must on no account be allowed. 
If the men are put into their baths, and dressed 
immediately after in warm, dry clothes, they 
will never take cold. 

These above points are the vital ones in the 
foot-ball training and give a general \iew of the 
course to be pursued. The smaller technicali- 
ties every captain must discover for himself 

( To he couliuHcd.) 




^- — - - 

K r i stnm^^^'^tKePo 1 1 y . 


By Grack F. Coolidge 

k'as the good ship " Polly," and 
,^^ she sailed the wintry sea, 

For ships must sail tho' fierce the gale, 
and a jjrccious freight had she ; 
'T was the captain's little daughter stood 

beside her father's chair, 
Anil illumed the dingy cabin with the sun- 
shine of her hair. 

With a yo-hcave-ho, and a yo-heave-ho .' 

For ships must sail 

Tho' fierce the gale 
And loud the tempests blow. 

\nd make belie\e the stove-pipe is a chim- 
ney — just for me ? " 

Loud laughed the jovial captain, and " By my 

faith," he cried, 
If he should come we '11 let him know he has 

a friend inside ! " 
And many a rugged sailor cast a loving glance 

that night 

The captain's fingers rested on the pretty, 

curly head. 
" To-morrow will be Christmas-day," the 

little maiden said ; 
" Do you suppose that Santa Claus will find 

us on the sea, 


At the stove-pipe where a lonely little 
stockinE! fluttered white. 



IVi/ha yo-heave-ho, ami ayo-Jicai'e-ho! 

For ships must sail 

Tho' fierce the gale 
And loud the tempests blo7v. 

On the good ship " Polly " the Christmas 

sun looked down, 
And on a smiling Uttle face beneath a 

golden crown. 
No happier child he saw that day, on 

sea or on the land, 
Than the captain's litde daughter with 

her treasures in her hand. 

For never was a stocking so filled with curious 

things ! 
There were bracelets made of pretty shells, 

and rosy coral strings ; 
An elephant carved deftly from a bit of ivory 

A fan, an alligator's tooth, and a little bag of 


Not a tar aboard the " Polly " but felt the 

Christmas cheer, 
For the captain's little daughter was to every 

sailor dear. 
They heard a Christmas carol in the shrieking 

wintry gust, 
For a little child had touched them by her 

simple, loving trust. 

With a yo-heave-ho, and a yo-heave-ho! 

For ships must sail 

Tho' fierce the gale 
And loud the tempests blotc. 


Bv William O. Stoddard. 



Chapter I. 

" I 'm going to the city ! " 

He stood in the wide door of the blacksmith- 
shop, with his hands in his pockets, looking 
down the street, toward the rickety old bridge 
over the Cocahutchie. He was a sandy-haired, 
freckled-faced boy, and if he was really only 
about fifteen, he was tall for his age. Across 
the top of the door, over his head, stretched 
a cracked and faded sign, with a horseshoe 
painted on one end and a hammer on the other, 
and the name "John Ogden," almost faded out, 
between them. 

The blacksmith-shop wa,s a great, ru.sty, grimy 
clutter of work-benches, vises, tools, iron in bars 
and rods, and all sorts of old iron scraps and 
things that looked as if they needed making over. 

The forge was in the middle, on one side, 
and near it was hitched a horse, pawing the 
ground with a hoof that bore a new shoe. On 
the anvil was a brilliant, yellow-red loop of iron, 
that was not quite yet a new shoe, and it was 
sending out bright sparks as a hammer fell upon 
it, — " thud, thud, thud," and a clatter. Over 
the anvil leaned a tall, muscular, dark-haired, 
grimy man. His face wore a disturbed and 
anxious look, and it was covered with charcoal 
dust. There was altogether too much charcoal 
along the high bridge of his Roman nose and 
over his jutting eyebrows. 

The boy in the door also had some charcoal 
on his cheeks and forehead, but none upon his 
nose. His nose was not precisely like the black- 
smith's. It was high and Roman half-way 
down, but just there was a little dent, and the 




rest of the nose was straight. His complexion, 
excepting the freckles and charcoal, was chiefly 
sunburn, down to the neckband of his blue 
checked shirt. He was a tough, wiry-looking 
boy, and there was a kind of smiling, self-conii- 
dent expression in his blue-gray eyes and around 
his firm mouth. 

" I 'm going to the city!" he said, again, in a 
low but positive voice. '• I '11 get there, some- 

Just then a short, thick-set man came hurry- 
ing past him, into the shop. He was probably 
the whitest man going into that or any other 
shop, and he spoke out, at once, very fast, but 
with a voice that sounded as if it came through 
a bag of meal. 

" Ogden," said he, " got him shod ? If you 
have, I '11 take him. What do you say about 
that trade ? " 

" I don't want any more room than there is 
here," said the blacksmith, " and I don't care 
to move my shop." 

" There 's nigh onto two acres, mebbe more, 
all along the creek from below the mill to Dea- 
con Hawkins's line, below the bridge," wheezed 
the mealy, floury, dusty man, rapidly. " I '11 
get two hundred for it some day, ground or no 
ground. Best place for a shop." 

" This lot suits me," said the smith, hammer- 
ing away. " 'T would n't pay me to move, — not 
in these times." 

The miller had more to say, while he un- 
hitched his horse, but he led him out without 
getting any more favorable reply about the 

" Come and blow, Jack," said the smith, and 
the boy in the door turned promptly to take the 
handle of the bellows. 

The little heap of charcoal and coke in the 
forge brightened and sent up fiery tongues, as 
the great leathern lungs wheezed and sighed, 
and Jack himself began to puff. 

" I 've got to have a bigger man than you 
are, for a blower and striker," said the smith. 
" He 's coming Monday morning. It 's time 
you were doing something, Jack." 

" Why, father," said Jack, as he ceased pulling 

on the bellows, and the shoe came out of the 

fire, " I 've been doing something ever since 

I was twelve. Been working here since May, 

Vol. XVII.— 29. 

and lots o' times before that. Learned the 
trade, too." 

"You can make a nail, but you can't make a 
shoe," said his father, as he sizzed the bit of bent 
iron in the water-tub and then threw it on the 
ground. " Seven. That 's all the shoes I '11 make 
this morning, and there are seven of you at home. 
Your mother can't spare Molly, but you '11 have 
to do something. It is Saturday, and you can 
go fishing, after dinner, if you 'd like to. There 
's nothin' to ketch 'round here, either. Worst 
times there ever were in Crofield." 

There was gloom as well as charcoal on the 
face of the blacksmith, but Jack's expression 
was only respectfully serious as he walked 
away, without speaking, and again stood in the 
door for a moment. 

" I could catch something in the city. I know 
I could," he said, to himself " How on earth 
shall I get there ? " 

The bridge, at the lower end of the sloping 
side-street on which the shop stood, was long 
and high. It was made to fit the road and was 
a number of sizes too large for the stream of 
water rippling under it. The side-street climbed 
about twenty rods the other way into what was 
evidently the Main street of Crofield. There 
was a tavern on one corner, and across the street 
from that there was a drug store and in it was the 
post-ofiice. On the two opposite comers were 
shops, and all along the Main street were all sorts 
of business establishments, sandwiched in among 
the dwellings. 

It was not yet noon, but Crofield had a 
sleepy look, as if all its work for the whole week 
were done. Even the horses of the farmers' 
teams, hitched in front of the stores, looked 
sleepy. Jack Ogden took his longest look, this 
time, at a neat, white-painted frame-house across 
the way. 

" Seems to me there is n't nearly so much 
room in it as there used to be," he said to him- 
self 'Tt 's just packed and crowded. I 'm 
going ! " 

He turned and walked on up toward Main 
street, as if that were the thing he could 
do till dinner time. Not many minutes later, 
a girl plainly but neatly dressed came slowly 
along in front of the village green, away up 
Main street. She was tall and slender, and her 




hair and eyes were as dark as those of John 
Ogden, the blacksmith. Her nose was like 
his, too, except that it was finer and not so 
high, and she wore very much the same 
anxious, discontented look upon her face. 
She was walking slowly, because she saw, com- 
ing toward her, a portly lady, with hair so flaxy 
that no gray would show in it. She was ele- 
gantly dressed. She stopped and smiled and 
looked very condescending. 

" Good-moming, Mary Ogden," she said. 

" Good-morning, Miss Ghdden," said Mary, 
the anxious look in her eyes changing to a 
gleam that made them seem very wide awake. 

" It 's a fine morning, Mary Ogden, but so 
very warm. Is your mother well ? " 

" Very well, thank you," said Mary. 

"And is your aunt well, — and your father, 
and all the children ? I 'm so glad they 're well. 
Elder Holloway 's to be here to-morrow. Hope 
you '11 all come. I shall be there myself. 
You 've had my class a number of times. Much 
obliged to you. I '11 be there to-morrow. You 
must hear the Elder. He 's to inspect the Sun- 

" Your class. Miss Glidden ? " began Mary ; 
and her face suggested that somebody was 
blowing upon a kind of fire, inside her 
cheeks, and that they would be very red in 
a minute. 

" Yes ; don't fail to be there to-morrow, Mary. 
The choir '11 be full, of course. I shall be there 

" I hope you wUl, Miss Glidden — " 

The portly lady saw something up the street, 
at that moment. 

" Oh my ! What is it ? Dear me ! It 's com- 
ing ! Run ! We '11 all be killed ! Oh my ! " 

She had turned quite around, while she was 
speaking, and was once more looking up the 
street; but the dark-haired girl had neither 
flinched nor wavered. She had only sent a 
curious, inquiring glance, in the direction of the 
shouts and the rattle and the cloud of dust that 
were coming swiftly toward them. 

" A runaway team," she said, quietly. " No- 
body 's in the wagon." 

" Dear me ! " exclaimed Miss GUdden ; but 
Mary began to move away, looking not at her 
but at the runaway, and she did not hear the 

rest. " Mary Ogden 's too uppish. — Somebody 
'11 be killed, I know they will! — She 's got to be 
taken down. — There they come ! — Dressed too 
well for a blacksmith's daughter. Does n't know 
her place. — Oh dear ! I 'm so frightened ! " 

Perhaps she had been wise in getting behind 
the nearest tree. It was a young maple, two 
inches through, lately set out, but it might have 
stopped a pair of very small horses. Those in the 
road were large — almost too large to run well. 
They were well-matched grays, and they came 
thundering along in a way that was really fine 
to behold; heads down, necks arched, nostrils 
wide, reins flying, the wagon behind them bang- 
ing and swerving — no wonder everybody stood 
still and, except Mary Ogden, shouted, " Stop 
'em ! " One young fellow, across the street, 
stood still only until the runaways were all but 
close by him. Then he darted out into the 
street, not ahead of them but behind them. No 
man on earth could have stopped those horses 
by standing in front of them. They could 
have charged through a regiment. Their 
heavy, furious gallop was fast, too, and the 
boy who was now following them must have 
been as Ught of foot as a young deer. 

" Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Go it. Jack ! Catch 
'em ! Bully for you ! " arose from a score of 
people along the sidewalk, as he bounded 

" It 's Jack ! Oh dear me ! But it 's just hke 
him ! There ! He 's in ! " exclaimed Mary 
Ogden, her dark eyes dancing proudly. 

" Why, it 's that good-for-nothing brother 
of Mary Ogden. He 's the blacksmith's boy. 
I 'm afraid he will be hurt," remarked Miss 
Ghdden, kindly and benevolently; but all the 
rest shouted " Hurrah ! " again. 

Fierce was the strain upon the young runner, 
for a moment, and then his hands were on the 
back-board of the bouncing wagon. A tug, a 
spring, a swerve of the wagon, and Jack Ogden 
was in it, and in a second more the loosely fly- 
ing reins were in his hands. 

The strong arms of his father, were they t\vice 
as strong, could not at once have pulled in those 
horses, and one man on the sidewalk seemed 
to be entirely correct, when he said, " He 's a 
plucky little fellow, but he can't do a thing, now 
he 's there." 

I Soft. I 



His sister was trembling all over, but she was 
repeating : " He did it splendidly ! He can do 
anything ! " 

Jack, in the wagon, was thinking only : " I 
know 'em. They 're old Hammond's team. 
They '11 try to go home to the mill. They '11 
smash everything, if I don't look out!" 

It is something, even to a greatly frightened 
horse, to feel a hand on the rein. The team in- 
tended to turn out of Main street, at the comer, 
and they made the turn, but they did not crash 
the wagon to pieces against the comer post, 
because of the desperate guiding that was done 
by Jack. The wagon swung around without 
upsetting. It tilted fearfully, and the nigh 
wheel was in the air for a moment, until Jack's 
weight helped bring it down again. There was a 
short sharp scream across the street, when the 
wagon swung and the wheel went up. 

Down the slope toward the bridge thundered 
the galloping team, and the blacksmith ran out 
of his shop to see it pass. 

" Turn them into the creek, Jack ! " he shouted, 
but there was no time for any answer. 

" They 'd smash through the bridge," thought 
Jack. " I know what I 'm about." 

There were wheel-marks down from the 
street, at the left of the bridge, where many a 
team had descended to drink the water of the 
Cocahutchie, but it required all Jack's strength 
on one rein to make his runaways take that 
direction. They had thought of going toward 
the mill, but they knew the watering-place. 

Not many rods below the bridge stood a 
clump of half a dozen gigantic trees, remnants 
of the old forest which had been replaced by 
the streets of Crofield and the farms around it. 
Jack's pull on the left rein was obeyed only too 
well, and it looked, for some seconds, as if the 
plunging beasts were about to wind up their 
maddened dash by a wreck among those gnarled 
trunks and projecting roots. Jack drew his 
breath hard, and there was almost a chill at his 
young heart, but he held hard and said nothing. 

Forward, — one plunge more, — hard on the 
right rein — 

" That was close!" he said. " If we did n't 
go right between the big maple and the cherry ! 
Now I 've got 'em ! " 

Splash, crash, rattle ! Spattering and plung- 

ing, but coohng fast, the gray team galloped 
along the shallow bed of the Cocahutchie. 

" I wish the old swimming-hole was deeper," 
said Jack, "but the water 's very low. Whoa, 
boys ! Whoa, there ! Almost up to the hub — 
over the hub ! Whoa, now ! " 

And the gray team ceased its plunging and 
stood still in water three feet deep. 

" I must n't let 'em drink too much," said 
Jack; "but a little won't hurt 'em." 

The horses were trembling all over, but one 
after the other they put their noses into the 
water, and then raised their heads to prick their 
ears back and forth and look around. 

" Don't bring 'em ashore till they 're quiet, 
Jack," called out the deep, ringing voice of his 
father, from the bank. 

There he stood, and other men were coming, 
on the run. The tall blacksmith's black eyes 
were flashing with pride over the daring feat his 
son had performed. 

" I dare n't tell him, though," he said to 
himself " He 's set up enough, a'ready. He 
thinks he can do 'most anything." 

" Jack," wheezed a mealy voice at his side, 
" that 's my team — " 

" I know it," said Jack. " They 're all right 
now. Pretty close shave through the trees, 
that was!" 

" I owe ye fifty dollars for a-savin' them and 
the wagin," said the miller. "It 's wuth it, 
and I '11 pay it ; but I 've got to owe it to ye, 
jest now. Times are awful hard in Crofield. 
If I 'd ha' lost them bosses and that wagin — " 

He stopped short, as if he could not exactly 
say how disastrous it would have been for him. 

There was a running fire of praise and of 
questions poured at Jack, by the gathering knot 
of people on the shore, and it was several min- 
utes before his father spoke again. 

" They 're cool, now," he said. " Turn 'em, 
Jack, and walk 'em out by the bridge, and up to 
the mill. Then come home to dinner." 

Jack pretended not to see quite a different 
kind of group gathered under the clump of tall 
trees. Not a voice had come to him from that 
group of lookers-on, and yet the fact that they 
were there made him tingle all over. 

Two large, freckle-faced, sandy-haired women 
were hugging each other, and wiping their eyes ; 




and a very small girl was tugging at their dresses 
and crying, while a pair of girls of from twelve 
to fourteen, close by them, seemed very much 
inclined to dance. Two small boys, who at first 
belonged to the party, had quickly rolled up 
their trousers and waded out as far as they 
could into the Cocahutchie. Just in front of 
the group, under the trees, stood Mary Ogden, 
straight as an arrow, her dark eyes flashing and 
her cheeks glowing while she looked silently 
at the boy on the wagon in the stream, until she 
saw him wheel the grays. Even then she did 
not say anything, but turned and walked away. 
It was as if she had so much to say that she 
felt she could not say it. 

" Aunt Melinda ! Mother ! " said one of the 
girls, "Jack is n't hurt a mite. They 'd all 
ha' been drowned, though, if there was water 

" Hush, Bessie," said one of the large women, 
and the other at once echoed, " Hush, Bessie." 

They were very nearly alike, these women, 
and they both had long, straight noses, such as 
Jack's would have been, if half-way down it 
had not been Roman, like his father's. 

" Mary Ann," said the first woman, " we 
must n't say too much to him about it. He 
can only just be held in, now." 

" Hush, Melinda," said Jack's mother. " I 
thought 1 'd seen the last of him when the 
gray critters came a-powderin' down the road 
past the house" — and then she wiped her eyes 
again, and so did Aunt Melinda, and they both 
stooped down at the same moment, saying, 
"Jack 's safe, Sally," and picked up the small 
girl, who was crying, and kissed her. 

The gray team was surrendered to its owner 
as soon as it reached the road at the foot of the 
bridge, and again Jack was loudly praised by the 
miller. The rest of the Ogden family seemed to 
be disposed to keep away, but the tall black- 
smith himself was there. 

" Jack," said he, as they turned away home- 
ward, " you can go fishing this afternoon, just 
as I said. I was thinking of your doing some- 
tliing else aftervvard, but you 've done about 
enough for one day." 

He had more to say, concerning what would 
have happened to the miller's horses, and the 
number of pieces the wagon would have been 

knocked into, but for the manner in which the 
whole team had been saved. 

When they reached the house the front door 
was open, but nobody was to be seen. Bob 
and Jim, the two small boys, had not yet 
returned from seeing the gray span taken to 
tlie mill, and the women and girls had gone 
through to the kitchen. 

"Jack," said his father, as they went in, "old 
Hammond '11 owe you that fifty dollars long 
enough. He never really pays anything." 

" Course he does n't — not if he can help it," 
said Jack. " I worked for him three months, 
and you know we had to take it out in feed. 
I learned the mill trade, though, and that 
was something." 

Just then he was suddenly embarrassed. Mrs. 
Ogden had gone through the house and out at 
the back door, and Aunt Melinda had followed 
her, and so had the girls. Molly had suddenly 
gone upstairs to her own room. Aunt Melinda 
had taken everything off the kitchen stove and 
put everything back again, and here now was 
Mrs. Ogden back again, hugging her son. 

"Jack," she said, "don't you ever, ever, do 
such a thing again. You might ha' been knocked 
into slivers ! " 

Molly had gone up the back stairs only to 
come down the front way, and she was now a 
httle behind them. 

" Mother ! " she e.\claimed, as if her pent-up 
admiration for her brother was exploding, 
" you ought to have seen him jump in, and 
you ought to have seen that wagon go around 
the comer ! " 

"Jack," broke in the half-choked voice of 
.\unt Melinda from the kitchen doorway, 
" come and eat something. I felt as if I knew 
you were killed, sure. If you have n't earned 
your dinner, nobody has." 

"Why, I know how to drive," said Jack. 
" I was n't afraid of 'em after I got hold of the 

He seemed even in a hurry to get through his 
dinner, and some minutes later he was out in the 
garden, digging for bait. The rest of the family 
remained at the table longer than usual, espe- 
cially Bob and Jim ; but, for some reason known 
to herself, Marj- did not say a word about her 
meeting with Miss Glidden. Perhaps the miller's 




gray team had run away with all her interest in 
that, but she did not even tell how carefully 
Miss Glidden had inquired after the family. 

'• There goes Jack," she said, at last, and they 
all turned to look. 

He did not say anything as he passed the 
kitchen door, but he had his long cane fishing- 
pole over his shoulder. It had a Une wound 
around it, ready for use. He went out of the 
gate and down the road toward the bridge, and 
gave only a glance across at the shop. 

" I did n't get many worms," he said to him- 
self, at the bridge, " but I can dig some more, 
if the fish bite. Sometimes they do, and some- 
times they don't." 

Over the bridge he went, and up a wagon 
track on the opposite bank, but he paused for 
one moment, in the ver)' middle of the bridge, 
to look upstream. 

" There 's just enough water to run the mill," 
he said. " There is n't any coming over the 
dam. The pond 's even full, though, and it 
may be a good day for fish. — I wish I was in 
the city ! " 

Chapter II. 

LL Saturday afternoon was 
before Jack Ogden, 
when he came out 
at the water's edge, 
near the dam, across 
from the mill. That 
was there, big 
and red and 
and the dam was 
there; and above 
them was the 
mill - pond, 
spreading out 
over a number 
of acres, and ornamented with stumps, old 
logs, pond-lilies, and weeds. It was a fairly 
good pond, the best that Cocahutchie Creek 
could do for Crofield, but Jack's face fell a little 
as he looked at it. 

" There are more fellows than fish here," he 
said to himself, with an air of disgust. 

There was a boy at the end of the dam near 
Irim, and a boy in the middle of it, and two boys 

at the flume, near the mill. There were tliree 
punts out on the water, and one of them had 
in it a man and two boys, while the second boat 
held but one man, and the third contained four. 
A big stump near the north shore supported a 
boy, and the old snag jutting out from the south 
shore held a boy and a man. 

There they all were, sitting perfectly still, 
until, one after another, each rod and line came 
up to have its hook and bait examined, to see 
whether or not there had really been a bite. 

" I 'm fairly crowded out," remarked Jack. 
" Those fellows have all the good places. I '11 
have to go somewhere else ; where '11 I go ? " 

He studied that problem for a full minute, 
while every fisherman there turned to look at 
him and then turned back to watch his line. 

" I guess I '11 tr)' down stream," said Jack. 
" Nobody ever caught anything down there, and 
nobody ever goes there, but I s'pose I might as 
well try it, just for once." 

He turned away along the track over which 
he had come. He did not pause at the road 
and bridge, but went on down the further bank 
of the Cocahutchie. It was a pretty stream 
of water, and it spread out wide and shallow, 
and rippled merrily among stones and boulders 
and clumps of \\-illow and alder for nearly 
half a mile. Gradually, then, it grew narrower, 
quieter, deeper, and wore a sleepy look which 
made it seem more in keeping with quiet old 

'• The hay 's about ready to cut," said Jack, 
as he plodded along the path, near the water's 
edge, through a thriving meadow of clover 
and timothy. "There 's always plenty of work 
in haying time. Hullo! What grasshoppers! 

As he made the last exclamation, he clapped 
his hand upon his trousers-pocket. 

" If I did n't forget to go in and get my 
sinker ! Never did such a thing before in all my 
life. What 's the use of trying to fish without a 
sinker ? " 

The luck seemed to be going directly against 
him. Even the Cocahutchie, at his left, had 
dwindled to a mere crack between bushes and 
high grass, as if to show that it had no room to 
let for fish to live in — that is, for fish accus- 
tomed to having plenty of room, such as they 


could find when living in a mill-pond, lined 
around the edges with boys and fish-poles. 

" That 's a whopper ! " suddenly exclaimed 
Jack, with a quick snatch at something that 
alighted upon his left arm. " I 've caught him ! 
Grasshoppers are the best kind of bait, too. 1 '11 
try him on, sinker or no sinker. Hope there are 
some fish, down here." 

The line he unwound from his rod was some- 
what coarse, but it was strong, and so was his 
hook, as if the fishing around Crofield called for 
stout tackle as well as for a large number of 
sportsmen. The big, long-limbed, green-coated 
jumper was placed in position on the hook, and 
then, with several more grumbhng regrets over 
the absence of any sinker. Jack searched along 
the bank for a place whence he could throw his 
bait into the water. 

" This '11 do," he said, at last, and the breeze 
helped him to swing out his Ime until the grass- 
hopper at the end of it dropped lightly and 
naturally into a dark little eddy, almost across 
that narrow ribbon of the Cocahutchie. 

Splash, — tug, — splash again, — 

"Jingo! What's that? 1 declare — if he is n't 
pulling! He '11 break the line, — no, he won't. 
See that pole bend ! Steady, — here he comes. 
Hurrah ! " 

Out he came, indeed, for the rude, strong 
tackle held, even against the game struggling 
of that vigorous trout. There he lay now, on 
the grass, with Jack Ogden bending over him 
in a fever of exultation and amazement. 

" I never could have caught him with a worm 
and a sinker," he said, aloud. " This is the way 
to catch 'em. Is n't he a big fellow ! I '11 try 
some more grasshoppers." 

There was not likely to be another two-pound 
brook-trout very near the hole out of which that 
one had been pulled. There would not have 
been any at all, perhaps, but for the prevail- 
ing superstition that there were no fish there. 
Everybody knew that there were bullheads, suck- 
ers, perch, and " pumpkin-seeds," in the mill- 
pond, and eels, with now and then a pickerel, 
but the trout were a profound secret. It was 
easy to catch another big grasshopper, but the 
young sportsman knew very well that he knew 
nothing at all of that kind of fishing. He had 
made his first cast perfectly, because it was 


about the only way in which it could have been 
made, and now he was so very nervous and ex- 
cited and cautious that he did very well again, 
aided as before by the breeze. Not in the same 
place, but at a little distance down, and close to 
where Jack captured his second bait, there was 
a crook in the Cocahutchie, with a steep, over- 
hanging, bushy bank. Into the glassy shadow 
under that bank the sinkerless line carried and 
dropped its h'ttle green prisoner, and there was 
a hungry fellow in there, waiting for foohsh grass- 
hoppers in the meadow to spring too far and 
come down upon the water instead of upon the 
grass. As the grasshopper alighted on the water, 
there was a rush, a plunge, a strong hard pull, 
and then Jack Ogden said to him.self : 

" I 've heard how they do it. They wait and 
tire 'em out. I won't be in too much of a hurry. 
He '11 get away if I am." 

That is probably what the fish would have 
done, for he was a fish with what army men 
call "tactics." He was able to pull very hard, 
and he was also wise enough to rush in under 
the bank and to sulkily stay there. 

" Feels as if I 'd hooked a snag," said Jack. 
" Maybe I 've lost the fish and he 's hitched me 
into a 'cod-lamper' eel of some kind. Steady, — 
no, I must n't pull harder than the fish." 

He was breathless, but not with any exertion 
that he was making. His hat fell oft' upon the 
grass, as he leaned forward through the alder 
bushes, and his sandy hair was tangled, for a 
moment, in some stubby twigs. He loosened 
his head, snll holding firmly his bent and strain- 
ing rod. One step farther, a slip of his left foot, 
an unsuccessful grasp at a bush, and then Jack 
went over and down into a pool deeper than he 
had thought the Cocahutchie afforded so near 

There was a very fine splash, as the grass- 
hopper fly-fisherman went under, and there was 
a coughing and spluttering a moment afterward, 
when his eager, excited, anxious face came up 
again. He could swim extremely well, and he 
was not thinking of his ducking, — only of his 

" I hope I have n't lost him ! " he exclaimed, 
as he tried to pull upon the line. 

It did not tug at all, just then, for the fish 
on the hook had been rudely startled out firom 



under the bank and was on his way up the 
Cocahutchie, with the hook in his mouth. 

" There he is ! I 've got him yet ! Glad I 
can swim — " cried Jack; and it did seem as 
if he and this fish were very well matched, 
except that Jack had to give one of his hands 
to the rod while his captive could use every fin. 

Down-stream floated Jack, passing the rod 
back through his hands until he could grasp the 
line, and all the while the fish was darting madly 
about to get away. 

" There, I 've touched bottom. Now for 
him ! Here he comes. I '11 draw him ashore 
easy, — that 's it ! Hurrah ! — biggest fish ever 
was caught in the Cocahutchie ! " 

That might or might not be so, but Jack 
Ogden had a three-pound trout, flopping angrily 
upon the grass at his feet. 

" I know how to do it now," he almost shouted. 
" I can catch 'em ! I won't let anybody else 
know how it 's done, either." 

He had learned something, no doubt, but he 
had not learned how to make a large fish out 
of a small one. All the rest of that afternoon 

(To be con. 

he caught grasshoppers and cast them daintily 
into what seemed to be good places, but he did 
not have another occasion to tumble in. When 
at last he was tired out and decided to go home, 
he had a dozen more of trout, not one of them 
weighing over six ounces, with a pair of very 
good yellow perch, one very large perch, a 
sucker, and three bullheads, that bit when his 
bait happened to sink to the bottom without 
any lead to help it. Take it all in all, it was a 
great string of fish, to be caught in a Saturday 
afternoon, when all that the Crofield sportsmen 
around the mill-pond could show was six bull- 
heads, a dozen small perch, a lot of " pumpkin- 
seeds " not much larger than dollars, five small 
eels, and a very vicious snapping-turtle. 

Jack stood for a moment looking down at 
the results of his experiment in fly-fishing. He 
felt, really, as if he could not more than half 
believe it. 

" Fishing does n't pay," he said. " It does n't 
pay cash, anyway. There is n't anything around 
Crofield that does pay. Well, it must be time 
for me to go home." 

iinued. ) 



Bv J. O. Davidson. 

To the mariner inward bound from a long 
voyage, few sights are more welcome than the 
first view of the pilot-boat. Whether she be 
met in fair summer weather, or in a winter's snow- 
storm or bliz/.ard ; within sight of land, or far out 
on the restless ocean, she is a welcome, a sign of 
rest, of good fellowship, and good cheer. To 
the passenger in pursuit of business, pleasure, 
or health, she is a landmark or mile-post, so to 
speak, on his way. To the tired sailor she prom- 
ises rest from heavy labors, an easy berth, and 
pay-day. To the captain she signifies relief 
from anxious duty, for, with the good pilot on 
board, he is relieved from further guidance, and 
is practically at his voyage's end — moored to his 
dock, and shaking hands with the shi|)'s owners 
over the safe ending of a happy voyage. 

The New York and New Jersey pilots are a 
set of hardy and reliable men, inured to hard- 
ship and responsibility, for tlieir training is a 
long and severe one. Many of them are brought 
up on or near the harbors in which they after- 
ward ply their trade, and the knowledge acquired 
as boys, while cruising in familiar home waters, 
stands them in good stead in after years. 

The first pilots of New York harbor were 
stationed at Sandy Hook, and \-isited incoming 
vessels in whale-boats ; and many a stately Brit- 
ish frigate or colonial trader was forced to wait 
anxiously outside the bar, rolling and tossing in 
the sea-way, or tacking hither and yon, waiting 
for a glimpse of that tiny speck where flashing 
oars told of the coming pilot. It is in this way 
many vessels are still met, off some of our 
smaller harbors, and at the Port Eads Jetties 
(those wonderful improvements of na\ngation at 
the mouth of the Mississippi River) this practice 
also remains. There the waters of the great river 
pouring into the Gulf of Mexico make a turbu- 
lent swell with foam-crested billows that roll the 
stoutest ship's gunwale under, even in calm 
weather; yet the little whale-boats, swift and 
buoyant, dash out bravely in a race for the sail 

on the distant horizon, for there are two pilot- 
stations at the Jetties, and it is " first come first 
engaged." There are plenty of tugs and small 
steamers there also, but the whale-boat is still 
used as easiest to handle and to embark from. 

On our own northern coasts, the long icy 
storms in winter, demand a stronger craft, and 
our pilot boats are stout, well-built little schoon- 
ers of a type and style peculiarly their own, and 
adapted to their work. They have a cook, boat- 
tender, and boy, to bring them in when the pilots 
are all " drojiped," and are comfortably furnished 
and amjjly provisioned. 

The boats have regular cruising grounds to a 
certain extent, but often are blown out to sea 
or up or down the coast, as far north as the New- 
foundland Banks and south as Cape Hatteras. 
They are familiar with all the tracks of incoming 
and outward-bound vessels and move about 
hither and thither to lie in the way of a vessel ; 
here intercepting a steamer, yonder a fruit-shi]), 
or dashing down the coast to meet some familiar 
craft which they know- is due and for which the 
pay will be large. This pay is regulated by law, 
according to tonnage and draught of the vessel, 
and is not collected by the pilots, but by their 
employees who look after this part of the work. 

One boat, known as the " station boat," is 
always kept near the harbor entrance, in sight 
of outgoing ships, to receive on board the pilots 
who have steered them down the channels of 
the bay; but sometimes, through darkness or 
heavy weather, some vessel fails to drop her 
pilot and he is compelled to sail in her to the 
nearest port whence he can return. Thus many 
a pilot has found himself a prisoner on board 
a ship for weeks, or landed at a foreign port, 
perchance in Europe or the West Indies, when 
he expected to be in his cozy home with his 
wife and children and Christmas dinner. 

On dark nights the incoming vessel or steamer 
may run by the waiting pilot-boat without see- 
ing her, and find herself in dangerous waters 



unawares. To prevent this, the pilots burn what 
is known as a " flare " or torch, consisting of a 
bunch of cotton or lamp-wick dipped in turpen- 
tine, on the end of a short handle. It burns 
with a brilliant flame, lighting up the sea for 
a great distance and throwing the sails and 
number of the pilot-boat into strong relief against 
the darkness, enabling the distant ship's look- 
out to discern her whereabouts and steer accord- 
ingly. Many an accident has been avoided in 
Vol. XVII. — 30. 

this manner also, for our modem steamships 
run so swiftly that the boat might be run 
down but for some such signal of position. 
On a dark clear night, the boats' positions can 
be seen not only by the flare on their sails, 
but also by the reddish glare which the signal 
projects on the under side of such clouds as 
may be floating near on the night winds. 
These flashes look like distant heat lightning 
or gleams from some huge fire-fly. 

"Tnere orvce was a man witK a snee3e 
V/Ko always would sit \n a bree3e 
\\/Ken bedded to take sKel(:(er 
Hed cry: I sKouId svvelt'er i 
And stroidhtwoy go on with Kis sneeze. 


It was a wet morning at the seaside, and the 
children could not have their picnic on the shore 
that Mamma had promised them. Baby did 
not mind, for he hardly knew what a picnic was : 
but Dora was ready to cry when she saw the 
rain falling, and the dull sky, without a bright 
spot anywhere. 

A little girl named Fanny, who lived in the 
next cottage, was to have gone with them. 

Dora wondered if Fanny was feeling as badly 
as she did, about the rain. Then, suddenly, 
she thought of something they could do, if 
only Fanny could come over. 

She asked her mamma if Nurse could go to 
Fanny's house — it was so near and there was 
a gate in the fence between — and ask Fanny's 
mamma to let her come over and play. 

Mamma gave permission, and while Nurse 




was gone, Dora went upstairs to the play-room, 
and looked over her dishes. They were the 
remains of two sets, one that she had at Christ- 
mas, and the old set that was given her on her 
birthday, long before Christmas. 

Baby had broken very many of them, and 
she herself had had " bad luck " (as she called it 
when she broke things). Those that were left 
she found in one of the beach-pails, mixed up 
with shells of different shapes and sizes, which 
also were used as dishes. Then she took the 
covers from the biggest doll's bed, and folded 
them like doyleys ; for on a picnic they would 
have doyleys instead of the large napkins. It 
was lucky the covers were quite clean. Mary 
(that was the nurse's name) had washed and 
ironed them, only the week before. 

By this time Mary had come back, and 
Fanny was with her. Dora leaned over the 
banister and saw her, laughing and talking, 
while Mary unbuttoned her waterproof. 

" Is n't it too bad about the rain ? " she 
said. But as Fanny looked up her face was 
as bright as the clearest sunshine could have 
made it. 

" Oh, yes ; " said Dora. " But I 've thought 
of a splendid play, if Mamma will let us have 
some real things to eat. We can have a picnic 
on the stairs. You must come up and help get 
ready. And, Mary, will you ask Mamma for 
some of the animal-crackers, and just a little 
bread and butter too, because we want to play 
with the animal-crackers. We won't be crumby 
a bit, and if we are, we '11 sweep up all the 
crumbs ourselves." 

Mary went for the things to eat, and the lit- 
tle girls filled one of the wooden beach-pails 
with the dishes and covered them over with a 
napkin, — Fanny did not mind in the least that 
the napkins were really covers, — but the other 
pail they did not fill, until Mary brought a ])late- 
ful of crackers and a very little bread and but- 
ter, for it was too soon after breakfast, she said, 
for them to have much. 

The animal-crackers were n't all animals; 
some were birds and fishes, and some were only 
hearts and diamonds and stars and shields ; but 
they could play these were shells they had found 
upon the shore. And besides the crackers and 
bread and butter, there was an orange. There 

was but this one, left from dessert the evening 
before ; but Mary said they could divide it 
among them with the old fruit-knife which she 
kept in the drawer of the table that stood in 
the nursery. 

While they were looking for the fruit-knife 
they found something else, which had been 
missing for days (that table-drawer was always 
crammed full of things that Mary did not know 
what else to do with, when she was " picking 
up " the room). They found the lid of the tea- 
pot belonging to the best tea-set. Of course, 
they would n't have tea, on a picnic, but Dora 
pretended that the teapot had milk in it ; and 
she tied on the lid and stuffed paper in the 

Baby would have his tin soldiers, though the 
little giris explained to him that soldiers did not 
go on picnics. But these soldiers went — as 
many of them as Baby could cram into the pail 
that held the crackers. 

The orange would not go in either of the pails, 
so Dora carried it in her hand. 

Then they asked Mary for their hats. But 
Fanny had come without any hat ; and Mary 
objected to Dora's taking hers, for it was one of 
those white starched hats that have to be washed, 
and it had just been done up, with the bows all 
spread out like new. She said Dora would 
drop it on the stairs and Baby would sit on it 
— bless him ! He never minded what he sat 
on, nor where he stepped, but just went ahead, 
like the great staving boy he was. 

But when Baby heard talk of hats he called 
for his hat, and Mary let him have it ; for Mary 
would always give Baby anything he asked for 
and never minded how he spoiled his clothes, 
because he was her favorite. So he was the 
only person at the jjicnic with a hat on ; but 
five minutes after they had reached the shore, 
which was the stairs, he wished it off again. 
And the litde girls laughed at everything he 
did because he was so funny, even when he was 
quite serious and put out. 

Mary said they had better have the picnic 
near the bottom of the stairs on account of 
Baby, who might step off backwards, when they 
were not looking. So the picnic began on the 
third step from the bottom. That was the cliffs, 
the green cliffs above the shore. The next step 



was the rocks, with " pot-holes " in them filled with 
water, where queer living things were imprisoned 
at low tide. The last step was the sand ; and the 
floor of the hall below was the water. 
It was a shiny floor and really 
looked very like still water. 

Dora sat on the cliffs, 
and Fanny stayed be- 
low on the rocks, hunting 

:i ! 

it, and so they had to make believe that his 
feet were wet. 

Fanny on the rocks spoke loud to Dora on 
the cliffs, so she could hear; but it was a .singu- 
lar thing about that picnic, that you could 
reach a person's hand from the rocks, though 
.she were sitting on the cliffs, ever so far 

-''.. It was quite con- 
' ' venient though, for 
Fanny could hand 
up her cu]5 for 
more milk, always 
calling in a loud 
voice to Dora : " Oh, 
Dora, have you any 
more milk ? The 
wind makes me so 
hungry. — Oh, can 
you see that tiny 
little crab in a pool 
in the rock ? Shall 
I catch him for 




? I 'm sure he 

shells and crabs, and Baby was to have played 
on the sand ; but he would step off into the 
water, which was \ery improper, for of course 
he had his shoes and stockings on and was 
not prepared for wading. But he would do 

is a soft shell, so he 
won't bite me." 
Of course there 
■■ were no crabs 
on the stair- 
case, any more 
than there was 
an ocean covering the 
floor. But Dora and 
Fanny were good "make-be- 
lievers," and Baby — well, he did 
spoil things a litde, but that was only 
because he did not understand how a 
real picnic should be. 

And when they had eaten the bread and 

butter first, and then the crackers, stars, and 

shields, and then the animals — the elephant 

and the horse's head and the dove and the 

hon, the two dogs and the fishes and the 

peacock — and divided the orange (with 

great difliculty) into three equal parts, they 

made believe the picnic was o^•er. And they 

told Mary that they had had a splendid time — 

so it did not matter about the rain, and Mamma 

promised them that they should have the real 

picnic on the next bright day. 


By Anna Eichberg King. 

In the zoological gardens of the ancient town 
of Banackpore, in East India, are a pair of 
ostriches, presented to the East India Company 
by the Maharajah of Cawnpore in 1795. An 
American traveler saw them in 1875 and said 
they were fine birds then. They were, tradition 
has it, far from young when presented to the 
East India Company, so that at present they 
are more than a century old, and from all ac- 
counts seem cheerfully prepared for more. So 
you see the ostrich is a long-lived bird. 

He is not only long-lived, but he is strong, 
and subject to comparatively few diseases. His 
digestive powers have become proverbial. 

An English gentleman in Port Elizabeth, 
South Africa, lost a valuable gold watch in an 
extraordinary manner. He was looking into 
an ostrich pen, watching the great ungainly 
creatures, when he had occasion to take out his 
watch. An ostrich stalked up with friendly 
curiosity (the ostrich is very curious), looked at 
it with his great, black eyes, and the next instant 
made a dive and swallowed the watch and as 
much of the chain as snapped oft". The price 
of the bird being exactly the same as the watch, 
the victim when last heard from had not been 
able to decide whether he should buy the old 
ostrich or a new watch. 

Another ostrich, grazing near a ball-ground, 
was seen to swallow a rubber-ball, two baseballs, 
and a hard, green apple, and was none the worse 
for his luncheon. 

When you think of all the hats trimmed with 
feathers, of all feather ornaments and trimmings, 
and of the humble feather-dusters, and the noble 
plumes ladies wear when they are presented at 
court; when you consider that a century and a 
half ago men still wore plumes on their hats, it 
is really a matter of surprise to think where all 
these lovely things come from. Till within 
eighteen years the ostriches were hunted like 
game and killed for the sake of their plumage. 

In 1868 an English gentleman started an ostrich- 
breeding farm in South Africa for the purpose 
of cultivating the birds for their feathers, simply 
clipping them twice a year, and leaving them 
at peace the rest of the time. 

In our great country the territory is so vast 
that there appears to be land and climate suited 
to all things. Ten years ago an American 
gentleman traveling in South Africa became 
deeply interested in ostrich-farming, and was 
soon convinced that it could be introduced in 
the United States as a new, and, after a time, 
very profitable industry. 

The ostrich, being a tropical bird, needed, of 
course, a climate not subject to Eastern ice, 
snow, and storms. He therefore decided that 
Southern California, some five hundred miles 
south of San Francisco, would be a place suit- 
able for the experiment. 

Africa is the home of the ostrich proper. 
There are and were other species in southern 
countries, as, for example, the Emu of Australia, 
with its three toes and its hairy feathers, the 
Cassowary of Africa, the extinct Dodo of Mada- 
gascar, and the extinct Moa of New Zealand. 
In South America they have the Rhea, and 
from its short feathers they make our com- 
mon feather-dusters. 

The handsomest and most valuable ostriches 
are found in Southern Africa. They are driven 
down by hundreds from the interior, as cattle 
are driven. There are ostriches in Algiers, also. 
Tliose for the California ranch were exported 
from South Africa. The price was five hundred 
dollars apiece, and, including the heavy export 
duty, they cost about a thousand dollars each 
by the time they reached their American desti- 

There were twenty-two of them, ten males 
and twelve females. They were driven some 
six hundred miles to Cape Town, South Africa, 
and shipped on board a sailing-vessel bound for 




Buenos Ayres, wliere they were landed after a 
six weeks' voyage. Here, after giving them 
time to rest, they were sent by steamer to New 
York. Then for a short time they rested again. 


They were next sent overland to San Francisco, 
whence, after a last rest, they were transported 
five hundred miles southward to their new home. 
The safe transportation of these birds was due 
to the great care taken that they should not be 
overtired during the journey. 

There are certain old traditions about the 
ostrich which, I have been told by the owner 
of the California ranch, are fallacious. He 
says that the ostrich does not burj' his head in 
the sand and imagine he is unobserved by his 
enemies. On the contrary, he is a very pugna- 
cious bird and always ready for a fight. Nor 
does the female ostrich lay her eggs in the sand 
for the sun to hatch them. To do them justice, 
they are quite domestic, and deserve a better 
reputation. Nor is the ostrich ever used for 
riding, as he has an exceptionally weak back ; 
any person might break it with a blow from an 
ordinar)' cane. 

His strength lies in his great breast, and his 

feet. He has one great claw, and a very small 
one, and with a terrible precision he can bring 
down the large claw with a cruel force that will 
tear open anything not made of sheet-iron. 

Savage birds at best, they are dangerously so 
during breeding time. The twenty-two birds 
brought to our California ranch, trusted to their 
instinct and laid their eggs during the Califor- 
nia winter, which corresponded to their summer 
south of the Equator. It being the rainy sea- 
son, their nests were filled with water and the 
eggs were chilled ; so the first season of their 
American sojourn was a failure. 

The ostrich makes its nest by rolling in the 
sand and scooping out a hole some six feet in 
diameter, and, exce])ting an incubator-house, 
the California ranch requires no buildings for 
the use of the birds, though the land is di- 
vided off into pens fenced in, each about an 
acre in extent, for the use of the breeding birds, 
every pair occupying one such inclosure. 

The ostriches live upon alfalfa and corn. 
Alfalfa is a grass cultivated all over the ranch ; 
it resembles our clover, and grows to a crop 
some six times a year. 

The ostrich hen lays her eggs everj' other day, 
and she can set on some twenty-two; but some 
hens lay as many as eighty, though of these only 
a small proportion are found to produce ostriches 
after proper hatching. 

Eggs which the ostrich can not hatch are 
hatched artificially in an incubator, like that 
used for chickens, only on a larger scale. 

In justice to the male ostrich, it must be said 
that he not only sets on the eggs twenty hours 
at a time to his mate's four hours, but that 
afterward he takes upon himself the education 
of his children and kicks the hen (which, to be 
sure, is far from commendable) when she pre- 
sumes to interfere. 

Among our California birds was one named 
" Long Tom." When they picked out a mate 
for him he took a great dislike to her, and kicked 
her over the fence, whereupon they put her 
back. Then Long Tom was so disgusted that 
he raised his great claw and brought it down on 
her so decidedly that — she died. Since then 
Long Tom has lived alone. 

While the birds are setting, it is difficult to 
examine the eggs to see which ones are fertile. A 




little corn, however, lures the bird from the nest, 
and a few of the eggs are then taken into a dark- 
ened room with one window. The window is 
entirely covered by a heavy blanket in which 
is a single small hole admitting a ray of sun- 
light. The eggs are held up to the light, one 
by one, and it is thus made easy to see through 
their coarse pores. If dehcate veins run through 
an egg, it is fertile, and is replaced in the nest. 
If not, it is used for eating. 

After forty-two days, either in the nest or 
incubator, the little ostriches come into the 
world. They are about as large as ordinary 
hens, and are covered with small, hedgehog- 
like quills, beneath which is a fine, gray fluff. 

When they are a fortnight old, they are taken 
from their parents and are adopted by some old 
bachelor ostrich, who, having no family of his 
own, kindly sees to them. During the first 
three months all sorts of dangers tlireaten the 

The male ostrich has the most valuable 
feathers, and the handsomest and costliest are 
on the first wing-joint and are either snow-white, 
glossy black, or black and white. 

Feathers forty-two inches long have been pro- 
duced in this ranch, and we were shown some, 
white and beautiful, that must have been fully 
a yard in length. The shorter tail-feathers are 
buff and black in the male bird, and buff and 
gray in the female. These are used for dress 
trimmings, and the coarsest are made into 
feather-dusters and other such articles. 

After four years their feathers grow more and 
more beautiful, and in the height of his produc- 
tive season the ostrich's lovely plumage is worth 
a hundred dollars a year. 

In the African farms, the ostrich clipping, be- 
ing conducted on a large scale, simphfies itself. 
The birds are driven into a long, narrow pen 
called a " kraal " (a Dutch word), and then 

It ' 


it"-- ■ . 



baby ostriches. They have all kinds of infantile 
illnesses, and it is only after these months that 
they can be reckoned upon as possessing any 
commercial value. 

In the beginning they are quite tame and 
harmless, but when, after four years, they come 
to maturity, they become as savage as are all 
old birds. 

they are so driven together, by means of a 
sliding gate rolled against them, that the huge 
creatures can not move. Otherwise it would be 
fatal to go among them. Then the men who 
clip them force their way through the throng. 

The wings are spread and the ripe feathers 
(those feathers through the ends of which no 
blood-vessels are to be seen) are cut. To cut a 



feather showing veins would be as painful to 
the bird as it is for us to have a tooth pulled. 
The unripe feathers are left for future clipping. 



As many as one hundred and fifty birds are 
driven into these kraals at a time ; but in the 
California ranch, there being at first but few 
birds, some other method had to be devised to 
catch and clip them, as there were not enough 
to be crowded into a pen and so made helpless 
and harmless. Ingenuity came to the rescue. 

One fine morning a gentleman rode to the 
nearest town and bought several dozens of 
long stockings, and then, to the great amuse- 
ment of the shopman, proceeded to cut off a 
bit from each toe. He rode back to the ranch 
with his apparently useless purchase. 

A bit of com lured each unsuspecting bird to 
the fence, where he was seized, and in a twink- 
ling had a long stocking slipped over his head. 
Being blinded, he was helpless and easily clipped, 
but he could meanwhile breathe sufficiently 
through the mysterious hole in the toe of the 
stocking. After the clipping the feathers are 
gathered and packed and sent to San Francisco, 

where they are sold at auction, and generally 
go to New York merchants. 

In this large California ranch there are at 
present some three hundred or more birds. 
" Long Tom " is the heaviest, weighing four 
hundred and fifty pounds. 

Ostriches are famous for their swiftness, some- 
times running at the rate of forty miles an hour. 
Long Tom once escaped from his pen and ran 
at such a rate that it took four cow-boys with 
fresh horses, in relays, to tire him out and cap- 
ture him. 

The first eighteen months of this experiment 
were discouraging, as such experiments often 
are ; but the next year success began to come, 
and now the ranch promises to be profitable. 

It is a strange and wonderful thing — man's 
power to bring all creatures to his uses. If he 
does not tame so savage and wild a creature as 
the ostrich, at least he captures him and makes 
him subservient to a new industry. 

It is pleasant to think that these beautiful 
feathers are not obtained by the death of the 
bird whose protection and whose beauty they 
were. I like to imagine the great ostriches, 
in that distant California ranch, gorgeous in 

J^^^ppr k^*^,^ 


their black and snow-white plumes, contentedly 
nibbling their clover in the clear sunshine and 
being no worse for losing their fine feathers 
twice a year — in fact, being much more fortu- 
nate than poor, ordinary mortals who never 
in a whole lifetime have a robe so royal. 




By Julie M. Lippmann. 

had been busy talking, for hours, Christmas Eve, 
great improvements until — will you believe ? — 
dull and drowsy, and said, 'twixt yawn and sigh, 
-ig old-fashioned had best pass out and die ! " 

And then I leaned back smiling and quite self-satisfied. 
And closed my eyelids slowly, when, lo ! they opened wide 
In sheer amaze and wonder, and would you know the cause ? 
I saw before me standing, the form of Santa Claus. 

But, oh ! so strange and altered ! In clothes of latest style, 
And not at all the Santa I 'd dreamed of all the while. 
But still I recognized him, and said: '" I did n't see 
You come out from the chimne\-, — 't was very dull of mc." 

" The chimney ?" said he gruffly, " 1 beg of you to know 
1 clamber down no chimneys ; I stopped that long ago ! " 
I said, " Your load was heavy, you 're tired ; won't you rest ? " 

" Oh, no," he answered grandly, " my goods were all expressed ! " 

Vol. XVTI.— 31. 




You must have found it pleasant — the sleighing, sir, I mean. 
The roofs are much more snowy than I have ever seen." 
Indeed ! " — his air was lofty — " 't is not the present mode 
To drive a sleigh. I travel by the elevated road." 

'T was all so strange it chilled me, but still I said, " Now, please, 
You won't forget to send us one of your Christmas trees. 
The children love you dearly and try to be so good." \; . 

He said : "No trees hereafter, I 'd have it understood. 

In fact, the time is over for Christmas. I should say 
Those very old-time customs have really passed 

We want the very latest, dear madam, you 

and I, 
And peace, good-will, and Christmas are 

of a time gone by." 

And then he seemed preparing to take 

his leave and go. 
But do you think I let him ? I called 

out bravely, " No ! " 
I ran to him and begged him, between 

my sobs and tears, 
To leave us blessed Christmas, just as in 

former years. 

To change no little custom ; to take no 

part away ; 
To leave us dear old-fashioned, beloved 

Christmas Day. 
And then, for just an instant, my 

eyes were very dim , 

With tears, and when 1 cleared 

them, I saw a change in 


His face, 't was round and jolly, his clothes, 
were as of old, 
He had a pack upon his back as full as it could 
And as he beamed upon me I heard his reindeer prance. 
Then sly old Santa gave me a smile and roguish glance. 

"I wish you Merr>' Christmas ! " I thought I heard him say. 
And when I tried to answer him, he 'd vanished quite away ! 
But though they say I dreamed it, I know we shall have still 
Our dear old-fashioned Christmas, bringing ''Peace on earth, good-will!" 


By Helen P. Strong. 

Little Pierre wondered, when he began to 
study geography, how any one could ever have 
thought the earth was flat. It seemed round 
enough to him, for he lived on the side of a 
high hill ; and in front of the house the ground 
sloped down, down, over bare fields covered 
with stones, until the slope was lost among the 
tops of the tall trees which grew under the brow 
of the hill. Over the trees, Pierre could see 
nothing but sky ; and back of the house the hill 
rose up, up, to where the trees formed against 
the sky a broken outline, in which Pierre found 
shapes which looked like men, horses, elephants, 
or great giants in deadly conflict with one 

In the ranks of these shapes, one buttonwood 
tree rose higher than all the rest ; and upon the 
very top of that tree Pierre discovered a little 
man standing, with a walking-stick in one hand, 
and holding his other arm akimbo. 

So he stood always, never changing his posi- 
tion in the hot summer days, and never coming 
down from his place when it was dark or stormy. 
Pierre thought the Uttle man must see all over 
the world from his high pinnacle; and there 
was one thing which made Pierre think he did 
not approve of all he saw in the world below ; 
and that was a habit he had of shaking his head 
from side to side, as if he were emphasizing a 
very disapproving " No." Generally, he shook 
it slowly, but at times when the wind blew and 
it seemed hard for him to keep his feet in that 
exposed place, he shook it vigorously — some- 
times bowing his whole body, and swaying from 
side to side in the most excited way. But Pierre 
had learned another side to the queer litde man's 
character : that his moods, like those of many 
other people, changed with the direction of the 
wind. In beautiful weather, when the wind came 
from the west, he would toss back his head, and 
laugh as if he would split his sides. Indeed, one 
day Pierre was sure he had met with this very 

accident; for he was so excited, and swayed 
back and forth so violenUy that his whole body 
seemed to split in two, just as if his face came 
away from the back of his head, and left the 
three-cornered hat standing on the top of his 
spinal-column. But, as he seemed to grow to- 
gether again, and suddenly began to frown and 
shake his head in the old forbidding way, Pierre 
thought that perhaps he wore different masks 
and that he had been discovered in the act of 
changing them. 

During the summer there was not a day 
that Pierre did not stand at the window, study- 
ing the little man's moods and pranks. 

One day, Pierre's Uncle George came from 
Philadelphia, where he lived. 

Pierre had gone to the door twenty times to 
see whether his uncle were coming ; and at last, 
just when it was growing dark and his grand- 
mother had lighted the lamp so that she could 
peer into the dark oven at the biscuits she was 
baking in honor of her son's visit, Pierre discov- 
ered the horse's ears just rising above the stones 
in the rough road up the hill. But instead of 
running out to meet his uncle, he slipped away 
by himself into the back parlor. 

" Where has that child gone ? " thought his 
grandmother; but he was back in a moment, 
and by the time she had welcomed her tall son 
(the only one living since the death of Pierre's 
father), and had turned to put the last touches 
to the supper-table, Pierre had his uncle by the 
hand, and fairly dragged him along to the big 
arm-chair by the back-parlor window, and, 
having climbed into his lap, was whispering in 
his ear the long-kept secret. All day he had 
feared that when his uncle came, it might be 
too dark to distinguish the little man on the 
top of the buttonwood tree ; and it was for this 
reason that he had gone for a final look at 
the last moment, while his uncle was getting 
out of the wagon. He tlien had found, to his 





delight, that although the sun had set, the 
moon was just rising over the mountain, and 
the faithful old fellow stood out clear in the 

Pierre had never dared say anything to his 
grandmother about the little man, for he knew 





--, < 

she would say, " Why, 
child, 'tis only a tree ! " She 
would have said it kindly 
enough, but Pierre /^//ezo it was 
a tree ; he wanted some one who 
would help him make-believe that it was a 
" really " man, some one who would tell him all 
about where the little man came from, and what 
he was there for. Pierre once had gone so far as to 
ask Joe (the boy who milked the cows and fed 
the pigs) what he thought about it; but Joe 
had said only, " Humph ! / can't see no man." 
He had wished to ask Bill Drake, the big wood- 
chopper who sat in the kitchen evenings, and 
told yams about snakes and bears ; but though 
Bill liked to tell his own stories, he alwavs told 

Pierre, when asked the reason for anything, 
that it was, " To make litde boys ask questions." 
Pierre used to wish, if so many things had been 
put in the world for this purpose, that a few 
more people could have been put in to answe?- 
little boys' questions, after they were asked. 

But now had come the only person in the 
world who always answered his questions; and 
he felt so glad he could almost have cried 
about it, as he poured into his uncle's ear the 
history of the litde Buttonwood man, and then 
snuggling close in his arms in the moonlight, 
said, " Now, please te' me 
_ 'bout him ! " 

" Why, he is one of Santa 
Claus's sentinels, to be 
sure," began Uncle George. 
" Santy claws, — Santy 
iinils ? What is that ? " 
a.sked Pierre, immediately 
connecting Santa Claus with 
the old claw-hammer in Joe's 
" Senrinels, — watchmen," 
said his uncle. " Don't you 
see, Santa Claus is too busy to 
keep account of all the bad boys 
and all the good boys. So he sets 
these litde men on the tops of the 
highest trees to keep watch and let 
him know when the boys are naughty." 
" Is that the reason he shakes his 
head so much ? " inquired Pierre, very 
low ; for he remembered that one 
day, when he answered his grand- 
mother disrespectfully, the little 
man had looked so solemn, and 
shaken his head so sadly, 
■Sit -' J ■ that Pierre had felt sure 

he knew all about it. 
"^^"""-^^Sj- "To be sure," 

said Uncle George. 
'• I suppose he sees some boy doing something 
he ought not to do, almost all the time ; and per- 
haps he is saying, 'Don't, don't,' when you see 
him shaking his head back and forth in that way." 
Just then they were called to supper, and dur- 
ing the meal Pierre looked so thoughtful and 
behaved so well that his grandmother wished 
that Uncle George would come oftener if it 



always would have so good an effect on the 

Uncle George left the next day, but Pierre's 
good behavior did not leave at the same time. 
His grandmother thought she had never known 
Pierre so ready to pick up her spool of thread, 

loss. The only thing for him to do, was to send a 
letter to his uncle. He was sure, if Uncle George 
knew about it, it would be made right. 

So he went away by himself and spent half a 
day printing his letter, though there were only 
these four crooked lines when it was done : 


or to bring things from the pantry when she was 
baking; but she did not know howmany of the 
mischievous plans which were always popping 
into his busy brain were never carried out be- 
cause of that " Don't ! Don't do it ! " which was 
privately telegraphed to him from the little man 
on the top of the tree. 

By and by, when Pierre was beginning to long 
for a smile of approval from his monitor, one 
morning — what do you think? — he appeared in 
an entirely new suit of clothes ! His cap looked 
like a crown of gold; his robe was spangled 
with bits of emerald ; he wore a sash of rich crim- 
son at his side ; and, for days after that, he never 
shook his head at all, but stood nodding peace- 
fully in a very satisfied way. 

But one night there was a dreadful storm. 
It rained and rained, and the wind blew and 
whistled down the chimney; and in the morn- 
ing, when Pierre looked out to see how the brave 
little watchman had stood it — lo, he was gt»/e ! 
Poor Pierre ! He was sure, that if the mountain 
could only be searched, the little man might be 
found. But he did not wish to be laughed at, 
and he knew that all the grown folks about tlie 
place would laugh at him if he told them of liis 

Perhaps I would better translate it : 

Uncle George : He blew off. What will .Santa Claus 
do about the boys ? P. .S. — \Vhen he said " Don't," I 
did n't. 

Pierre got Joe to address the envelope and 
take it down to the post-office when he went for 
the mail. It seemed a long while before the 
answer came ; and when it did come, it was the 
very night before Christmas. It was printed in 
large plain letters, so Pierre could read it for 
himself, and this was what it said : 

Don't worry. I ought to have told you, these little 
men on the tree-tops are all invited to give in their re- 
ports at a big Thanksgiving dinner at Mrs. Santa Claus's 
house, so that there will be plenty of time for Santa Claus 
to get ready for Christmas. 

The next morning Pierre was downstairs as 
soon as it was light, and the first thing he saw 
was a beautiful new sled, with a card tied to it. 
On the card was printed : 

" For the little boy who did n't when the But- 
tonwood man said ' Don't.' " 

Pierre wished he could see the Buttonwood 
man once more to thank him ; he went to the 
window, and there, on the top of the hill, in the 



same old place, stood the little sentinel, — only Joe came running in for the snow-shovel, and 

now he was bundled up warmly in the whitest Bill Drake said, " Look at the snow on the tops 

of cloaks — just such as they wear in Santa of the trees." But Pierre said softly to himself, 

Claus's own palace. " It is n't snow, — and it is n't a tree I " 


By Laura CI. Richards. 

Who is this boy ? 

This is Charles. 

AVhat is Charles doing ? 

He is looking out of the pantr)'. 

Why does he look out ? 

Because he wishes to see if the coast is clear, 
so that he can run to his own room without 
being seen by any one. 

Why does he not wish to be seen ? 

Because he has been naughty. 

What has he done ? 

He was sent to the pantry half an liour ago 
by his Aunt Matilda, to bring her a piece of 
citron for the cake. He could not find the 
citron, but he found a jar full of cinnamon- 
sticks, and a dish of plum-jam, and he has been 
enjoying himself very much, indeed. He left 
the door only a crack ojjcn, for fear some one 
should come, so the pantry was ([uite dark ; and 
in stepping down from the shelf he knocked 
down three lamp-chimneys and a molasses-jug, 
and then stepped right into the keg of pickled 
cucumbers and sat down in it. He upset the keg 
in getting out, and the floor is all covered with 
cucumbers and vinegar and molasses and bro- 
ken glass, so that it is not pleasant to walk on. 

What will Charles do now ? 

If he can get to his room without being seen, 
he will either have a bad headache and go to 
bed, or will run away to sea ; he is not quite 
sure which. 

Why does he look as if he heard a noise at 
this moment ? 

Because he does hear one. 

What noise is it ? 

It is the sound of his Aunt Matilda's footstep. 

If his Aunt Matilda catches him, what will 
she do ? 

She will spank him. 

Is that the best thing that could happen to 
him ? 

It is. 

What is the moral of this picture ? 

It has two morals. The first is, that it is not 
wise to send little boys to the pantry. The 
second is, that a little cinnamon in a pudding, 
■with safety, is better than a whole stick followed 
by disaster and spanks. 


By Palmer Cox. 

The Brownies once approached in glee 

A slumbering city by the sea. 

When one remarked, " On every side 

Now round us stretches in her pride 

The greatest city, far or near. 

Upon the Western Hemisphere.' 

' And in this town," a second 

' I hear the artist does reside 

Who pictures out, with patient hand. 
The doings of the Brownie band. 
Who draws our portraits, sings our praise, 
And tells the world our cunning ways." 

fi^LMin ooVi?3 





" I 'd freely give," another said, 
" The cap that now protects my head, 
To find the room, where, day by day, 
He shows us at our work or play." 
A fourth replied : " Your cap retain 
To shield your po]\ from snow or rain. 
His studio is farther down, 
Within a corner-building brown, 

Then through the park, around the square. 
And down the broadest thoroughfare. 
The anxious Brownies quickly passed, 
And reached the building brown at last. 
They paused awhile to view the sight, 
To speak about its age and height. 
And read the signs, so long and wide, 
Which swung around on every side. 


AVhich overlooks the human tide 

That crowds along the street so wide. 

1 know the city through and through. 

As well as if the plan I drew ; 

So follow me a mile or more. 

And soon we '11 reach the office door." 

But little time was wasted there. 

For soon their feet had found the stair. 

And next the room, where oft are told 

Their funny actions free and bold. 

Was honored by a friendly call 

From all the Brownies, great and small. 




Then what a gallery they found, 

As here and there they moved around — 

A portrait now they criticize, 

Which every one could recognize : 

The features, gannents, and the style. 

Soon brought to every face a smile. 

And next they 
gaze upon a 
That showed 
them sport- 
ing on the 
Or hastening 
o'er the fields 
with speed 
To help some farmer in his need. 
Said one, " Upon this desk, no doubt, 
Where now we cluster round about, 
Our doings have been plainly told 
From month to month, through heat and cold. 
And there 's the ink, I apprehend, 
On which our very lives depend. 
Be careful, moving to and fro, 
Lest we upset it as we go. 
For who can tell what tales untold 
That darksome liquid may unfold ! 

And here 's the 
pen, as I 
That 's written 
every verse 
and line ; 


to this 

pen are 

For all our 

fame and 

history." ^_ 

" See here," 

another ciied, " I 've found 
The pointed pencil, long and round. 
That pictures all our looks so wise, 
Our smiles so broad and staring eyes ; 

'T is well it draws us all aright. 
Or we might bear it off to-night. 
But glad are we to have our name 
In every region known to fame. 
To know that children hsp our praise, 
And on our faces love to gaze." 

Lay figures, draped in ancient styles, 
From some drew graceful bows and smiles, 
Until the laugh of comrades nigh 
Led them to look with sharper eye. 
Some tried their hand at painting there, 

And showed their 
skill was some- 
thing rare ; 
While others talked 
and rummaged 
The desk to find the 

stories new. 
That told about 

some late affair, 
Of which the world 
was not aware. 
But pleasure seemed to have the power 
To clip at will the passing hour. 
And bring too soon the morning chime. 
However well they note the time. 

Now, from a 

— jai ['^-'.'i-'.iJil-'. !, ,J|'<t? 

chapel's bra- 
zen bell. 

The startUng 
hint of morn- 
ing fell. 

And Brownies 
realized the 

Of leaving for 
their haunts 
with speed. 

So down the 
staircase to [ 
the street 

They made their 
way with nim- 
ble feet. 

And ere the sun could show his face. 

The band had reached a hiding-place. 

Vol. XVII.— 32. 





A Happy New Year to you, one and all, my 
friends ! And, now I think upon it, I wished this 
same wish about seventeen years ago, and some of 
you have heard it from this pulpit many a time in 
the years between. Certainly these good wishes 
ought to take effect by this date, and you all should 
have the very happiest year that good Father Time 
ever shaped with his gleaming scythe. 

The gift of a fresh New Year, tlie Deacon says, 
is one that should fill any human heart with hope, 
courage, and gratitude. That's all 1 ask. If you 
are hopeful, brave, and full of gratitude, you '11 
stand a fair chance of being as good and happy as 
your Jack can wish. 

Meanwhile, the wind is telling its story of the 
coming of the new year and the going away of 
the old. This is the way one of your St. NICHOLAS 
poets, Ida Whipple Benham, hears it: 

One moment, eye to eye, 
Under the midnight sky, 

The Old Year and the New ; 
And one was fair to see 
In his undimmed panoply. 

And one a veteran true. 

And this was the greeting sent 
As they hasted, well content 
Each on his untried quest : 
Cried the Old Year to the New, 

" I pity you ! " 
Straight back the answer flew, 
" I pity you ! " 
As they rode, one east, one west. 

It is very strange that human folk, including the 
poets, always should speak of the going year as a 
veteran, an old, old gray-beard, bewildered and 
desolate, tottering away to die. Now, I don't be- 

lieve a word of it. The old year, as they already 
call 1889, can not have lived over twelve months, 
say what tliey will ; and, according to my thinking, 
he is remarkably bright, and strong of his age. 
So far from being old and decrepit, he is very fresh 
and vigorous, and, as he steps briskly into line with 
the brothers who have preceded him, he stands nod- 
ding wisely at the very important baby, 1890, curi- 
ous to know how the little chap is going to comport 

Ah, how? This will depend very much upon your- 
selves, my chicks, and your fathers and mothers, 
your friends, your teachers, your presidents, kings, 
and emperors, and all the other members of this 


Not real stones, of course, but peach stones. 
Yes, my birds tell me that somewhere in California 
peach stones are sold and used for fuel. They bring 
five or si.\ dollars a ton, and in burning give out as 
much heat as the same weight of hard coal would. 

Your Jack has not heard how the peach stones 
are obtained — whether from the unsold fruit or 
refuse of peach orchards, or from the fruit canning 
factories, or by gathering up the stones that the 
peach-eating California young folk forget to swal- 
low in their haste to get back to their studies — 
at all events, peach stones make excellent fuel. 


What city is on the line of the equator? Your 
Jack is told that the sun sets and rises there at six 
o'clock, apparent time, all the year round. Geogra- 
phy class, please take notice. 


You will remember, my hearers, being shown 
from this pulpit, in November last, a photograph 
of some very large pumpkins w hich I had been in- 
formed were from Nebraska. Well, to my regret, 
it appears that this was a mistake; they were not 
Nebraska pumpkins at all. They were raised in 
San Jose, California, as more than one correspond- 
ent has since informed me. And the following 
are the garnered facts : 

The picture was " taken from life " by Miss Pol- 
heinus, an amateur photographer. The heaviest 
pumpkin, or "squash," in the left-hand corner, 
weighed one hundred and eighty-four pounds; thir- 
teen of the specimens weighed a ton. The young 
man in the corner is Mr. G. Wakefield, who raised 
the pumpkins. He is a six-footer, and this fact 
should be taken into account in estimating the size 
of the fruit — and beyond and above all, as I have 
already rectified and testified unto you, Nebraska 
never knew, saw, nor heard of these pumpkins 
before they had been raised in San Jose, California. 

This is to show that your Jack knows enough 
to make a mistake, and is honorable enough to 
acknowledge it and correct the same — under 





Your Jack has received a funny Christmas 
present. It is a doll. And a doll made of grass ■ 
It is dressed in a coarse white lace slip, fastened at 
the waist by a girdle of red string — the funniest 
plaything that Jack-in-the-Pulpit ever had. 

Here is the letter that came with it, and I am 
sure it will interest my girls very much. 

TOPEKA, Kans. 

De.\r J.\ck : . . . Since your " chicks " have lately 
been interested in the subject of doll-foreigners, I thought 
perhaps you would like to show them this primitive 
little stranger. The doll I send is just as a little colored 
girl in Mississippi made it for us, and it is the only kind 
little slave children before the " wah " had to play with. 
It is made by pulUng up a bunch of grass, roots and all, 
tying the grass together at the neck line, braiding the 
roots for hair — and dressing it in any style suited to the 
fancy or resources of the small owner. When tfiese dol- 
Ues are fresh and green you can imagine they are really 
quite handsome, and no doubt they were quite as warmly 
loved as their more awe-inspiring wax and bisque cous- 
ins would have been. 

From a regular attendant upon your sermons, 

B. E. L. 


Newark, X. J., Oct. 31, '89. 
Dear Jack: A big boy asks "if any of your chicks 
have ever seen the huge rose-bush in Hildesheim." I 
have not only seen it but have a sprig from it given me 
by the kiister of the cathedral. The bush is thirty-five 
feet high and thirty feet wide, and when in bloom is 
covered with single white roses. In Hildesheim it is 
said to be over one thousand years old. The great fire 
that burned part of the doiit (or cathedral) nearly de- 
stroyed the rose-bush. It has now a large iron railing 
around it to protect it. 

From your interested reader, Beatrice. 


De.\r J.\ck : Here is afunny story that I have just read 
in an encyclopedia, and I hope you '11 show it to the other 
fellows, because it explains an expression quite often used 
in juvenile society. 

Once, in a battle between the Russians and the Tartars, 
who are a wild sort of people in the north of Asia, a 
private soldier called out : " Captain, halloo there ! I 've 
caught a Tartar I " " Fetch him along, then ! " said the 
captain. " .\ye, but he won't let me," said the man ; and 
the fact was, the Tartar had caught him ! So when a 
man thinks to take another in, and gets bit himself, they 
say: " He 's caught a Tartar." 

Yours truly, C. A. Jr. 


By DE.iVCON Green. 

If I were little again, — ah, me ! — 

How very, ver>- good I 'd be. 

I would not sulk, I would not cry, 

I 'd scorn to coax for cake or pie. 

I would not cause Mamma distress, 

I 'd never hate to wash and dress. 

I 'd rather learn a task than play, 

And ne'er from school I 'd run away. 

I 'd any time my jack-knife lend, 

And share my toys with every friend. 

I 'd gladly go to bed at six, 

And never be "as cross as sticks." 

I 'd run with joy to take a pill, 

And mustard wear whenever ill. 

I 'd never wish to skate or swim, 

But wisely think of dangers grim. 

And, oh, I 'd never, just for fun, 

Beg to go hunting with a gun ! 

At every naughty thing I did — ■ 

For mischief might be somewhere hid — 

I 'd drop at once upon my knees, 

And say, '• Dear Teacher, flog me, please." 

It 's easy to be good, you see, 
When looking back from sixty-three. 

Excited BrmvnU : "See here, old Chappie — they 've up and put something more about us in 
St. Nicholas, right around the comer — a page or two back!' 


Palermo, Cal. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I have never seen a letter from 
this town .IS it is only .ibout a year old. It is situated 
right in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains in 
the Valley of the Feather. My brother and myself live 
in a little cabin about a mile from town. If you go along 
any little creek you will see that the ground has all l)een 
picked up by men who came for gold in 1849. About 
hve miles from here some men have commenced a mine 
in the bed of the Feather River where they expect to get 
gold. Your subscriber, 

Selden S. H . 

Chicago, III. 

Dear St. Nicholas : Last winter we were away 
from home for seven months, and during part of the time 
we visited in Alaska the Muir Glacier, one of the largest 
as well as one of the most beautiful of that northern 

On the morning of June 12 we found ourselves in 
Glacier Ray, with icebergs large and small floating on all 
sides of us, making the passage very dangerous. 

When we caught our first glimpse of the glacier it 
looked like a cloud or gray mist rolling down the wide 
valley. About ten o'clock we dropped anchor in front 
of the great glacier and for the first time heard the thun- 
der of the falling ice. The glacier's front is from three 
hundred to four hundred feet high. As our eyes glanced 
along the front of it we caught the many lints of the ice. 
On the left it was a deep indigo, slowly fading out to a 
turquoise and then to a snowy white. Its front was 
broken into huge pinnacles towering over the water. 
We were landed in life-boats on the rocky moraine, and 
then scrambled for a mile over huge boulders, rounded 
pebbles, granite soil, and glacier mud. When we reached 
the pure snow-colored ice of the glacier its surface 
was seamed with deep chasms through which melted ice 
flowed, but it was so far down we could not see it. 

At last we had gained the top and could see over the 
vast glacier, and saw its tributaries far back in the snow- 
clad mountains, the great myriads of icebergs in the bay, 
and the exquisite coloring of it all. The mountains all 
around the glacier are worn down almost round, and only 
the rocks are to be seen, for the soil is all ground ofl" by 
the slow process of glacial action. After we came back 
from our tramp in those two short hours it almost seemed 
as though we could see a change in the glacier. Great 
chunks of ice had fallen off and revealed new crevices 
and more dainty colors. The softest, palest blue changed 
suddenly to a deep sapphire or a crystal while, as a loud 
report announced the falling of another iceberg. 

About five o'clock in the afternoon we steamed away 
and took our last look at this beautiful and majestic work 
of nature. .\s we threaded our way among the floating 
icebergs it seemed as though their numbers had greatly 
increased, and after supper we saw a sight never to be 

To the starboard side was a lovely bay covered with 
floating ice, and into this poured the great Pacific gla- 
cier. Beyond were large mountains towering to the 
height of thousands of feet, their slopes covered with 
snow. Above them rose Mt. Fairweather and Mt. 

Crillon, fifteen thousand feet high, just showing in the 
fleecy clouds. The mountains were piled unevenly to- 
gether, their snowy crests shimmering like frosted silver 
in the soft sunbeams that danced merrily on them. A 
little farther on we met a canoe with two Indians in it. 
They were dressed in while, with a white screen before 
them, and their paddles scarcely rippled the icy water as 
they flew on. They looked very queer with their black 
f.ices peeping out from their white dresses. We found our- 
selves believing it was some enchanted scene, for the 
silvered mountains behind, the strange canoe with its two 
occupants, the mountains before us tinged with a weird 
golden light, the huge icebergs, and the unbroken still- 
ness gave one the impression of living in a magic dream. 
The Indians, it seems, were hunting seal and were dressed 
to look as much like icebergs as possible. 

Your loving friend, Jl-'LIA T. M . 

The Eagle's Nest, Old Mission, Mich. 

My Dear St. Nicholas : We have a little pug-dog, 
and when he gets on his collar he is very pretty indeed. 
When we came up from Chicago on the steamer " Petos- 
key " he was very lonely, and the porter fed him and was 
kind to him, and when he saw him the next time the 
boat came in, he jumped alj over him and licked his hands 
so joyfully that it was all we could do to get him away 
from the porter when the boat started. He likes' to play 
ball, and when we play tennis he thinks it is his business 
to get the balls and bring them to us. When we lose a 
ball, we say, " Find it ; find it, Trix. " 

I am eleven years old ; I like you very much indeed ; 
especially I like the "Bunny Stories," — they are very 
interesting indeed. 

The reason our cottage was named " Tlie Eagle's 
Nest " was because there was once an eagle's nest in one 
of our trees, and we used to sit and look at it. Some- 
times we would see the mother eagle on the nest. 

Your interested reader, Hortense L . 

" East Lynxe," Ocean Be,\ch, N. J. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken yon for nearly six 
years, and have w ritten twice before, but my letters were 
not printed. I hope you will print this. 

We are down here for the summer, my mother and my 
little sister Ethel, and are staying at a very pretty house 
called " East Lynne " ; it has a high tower which, at 
night, is lighted up, and the sailors can see the light on 
stormy nights, and know where they are, for our light is 
the only one between Barnegat and Sandy Hook. In the 
winter we go to a boarding-school in West Philadelphia. 

My mamma's aunt knew Mrs. Dodge very well, and 
I think her stories are splendid. I was very much inter- 
ested in the account of " Laura Bridgman "; I have read 
■Dickens's account of her in his "American Notes." 

I am fourteen next month, and my favorite novelist 
is Dickens ; my favorite poet, Longfellow. 

We go in bathing here nearly every day ; it is great 
fun. I can swim a httle; my httle sister is just learning. 




Please, St. Nicholas, «n!l you tell me how to make a 
"salt tumbler "? I remain one of your many devoted 
admirers, May I. J . 

Directions for making a salt tumbler may be found on 
page 739, of St. Nichoi-\s for 1S84. 

Springfield, III. 

Dear St. Nicholas: My sister and I have taken 
you for five years and have always looked forward to 
your coming. 

Papa, Mamma, my sister, and I visited a fort this sum- 
mer. It seemed so funny to ride in an ambulance drawn 
by four mules. 

One day we went out to target practice; when the 
men would shoot, it sounded like a bunch of fire-crackers 
going off. After the men were through, we rode down 
and found many bullets. 

The ground where the bullets hit looked as if some 
one had plowed it. 

Your constant reader, S. D. M . 

New Rochelle. 

Dear St. Nicholas : Your stories I like very much. 
I think the " Bunnies " are great fun, and the " Brownies " 
too. I am going to tell you how glad I was when my 
mamma brought the first St. Nichol.\s. I am always 
reading them, and so glad when my mamma brings a 
new one home to me. I am an English boy, but very 
glad that I am over here. I never had such fun over 
there, as all the boys have here. I live in New Rochelle 
and like it very much. 

Good-bye now. 

Yours truly, W.allace S^ . 

P. S. — Thank yon so much for making dear old St. 
Nicholas larger. Yon could not make it too big ; not 
too thick, I mean. I liked "A Story of a Horse" in the 
November number so much. — W. S. 

FusAN, Corea. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have often thought you would 
like a letter from this part of the world, as I suppose it 
is the first 

I am an English girl, twelve years old, and the only 
foreign child in Fusan. 

This is a Japanese settlement, founded some three 
hundred years ago ; the Corean people live some dis- 
tance away. 

I have many pets, — a little Corean pony which I brought 
from Seoul (the capital), and called " Prince " ; he is a 
beauty, and very intelligent and amiable. I have also 
a canary and a cat, both of which came from Hankow, 
in China, with me ; several pigeons, and a dog. 

Our house is by the sea, and we — that is, Mamma, 
Papa, and I — have greatly enjoyed sea-bathing during 
the summer heat. 

I study at home, not very regularly, as so many things 
interfere ; but expect to go shortly to school in Chefoo, 
China, four days' journey by steamer from here. 

I greatly enjoy reading you, and am always very 
anxious that the steamer should not miss the mail in 

I very much hope to see my letter in print, as it is 
the first I have written to any paper. 

If you care to know anything about Corea and the 
Coreans, I will gladly write to you about Seoul. 

Your constant and appreciative reader, 

Beryl H . 

Little Boar's Head. 

Dear St. Nicholas : Don't you think this place has 
a queer name? When we applied for a post-office, the 
Post-office Department said the name was too long ; but, 
as we told them of some other places with names just as 
long, they let us keep the name. 

There is a little Indian pony here whose name is 
" Fla.vie," and upon him I have had a good many long 
rides. UnhappUy pony has a stubborn will of his own. 
The other day I was in a hurry, and was galloping fast, 
when we came to a sharp turn that led back to his stable, 
so, though I wanted to go straight ahead and tried to 
pull him round, he took the bit in his teeth and went 
round the corner, when the girths broke and I found 
myself on the ground ! I was not hurt, however, though 
I lost my ride. 

I wonder how many of your readers know that " Old 
Ironsides " is still in existence, and is at Portsmouth as 
a training-ship ? I rowed under her bows the other day. 
They have, however, built her upper deck out over the 
sides, and then roofed it in to use as a ball-room, which 
gives it a topheavy and uncomfortable look. 

I have taken you ever since 1879, so I hope tliat yon 
will print this. 

Your constant reader, Donald McI . 

West New Brighton, S. I. 

Dear St. Nicholas : Will it be wrong to point out 
two or three little mistakes in that very charming his- 
torical tale, in your November number, " The Prince and 
the Brewer's Son"? Errors in historical matters, or 
even in the embroidery work which surrounds the his- 
tory of all great men, cling like burrs to a child's mind. 

For instance. Queen Elizabeth died March 24, 1603, 
and James I did not leave Edinburgh until April 5th ; 
and he took a month to reach London. For this, and 
other reasons, it is not probable that he made another 
journey that year. Then, too, Oliver Cromwell was 
born .\pril 25, 1599, and Charles I. was born November 
9, 1600 ; therefore, in 1603 it would have been Oliver 
who was four years old, for Charles was not quite three. 
If, however, the date of the story were 1604, we could 
reconcile that year with the ages of the children, for in 
the legend Oliver is always represented to have been five 
years old in his first encounter with his future king. 

Again, in 1603-4, Charles was not his father's heir ; but 
Prince Henry, his older brother, was the heir to the 

It was for this prince that, in 1599, before Queen 
Elizabeth's death, James, who was then King of Scot- 
land, wrote the " Basilicon Doron," the Royal Gift, and 
it was for him, too, that Sir Walter Raleigh, while a pris- 
oner in the tower, began to write the " History of the 
World." Prince Henry was a great friend of Sir Walter, 
and said that no one but his father would keep such a 
bird in such a cage. 

This was not a very filial speech, and I doubt if at this 
time there was much love lost between the father and son. 
Some people believe that James was jealous of his son, 
Prince Henry, and say that the prince died under sus- 
picious circumstances. 

However, the usual story of his death is, that Prince 
Henry left Richmond, where he had been ill for some 
time, and came to Whitehall to help on the preparations 
for his sister's wedding. This sister was the Princess 
.Elizabeth who, the next year, 1613, on St. Yalentine's 
Day, married the Elector Palatine of Bavaria, Frederick 
v., who was afterward King of Bohemia, and it is this 
same princess, Elizabeth, whose descendants have reigned 
over England since 1714, for she was the grandmother of 
George I. 



But long before the wedding Prince Henry, one cold, 
raw day, went out to play a game of tennis, and, throw- 
ing off his coat in the heat of the game, he had a severe 
chill and died, within two weeks, of what was called 
" putrid fever." His death occurred in the latter part of 
1 61 2, when he was in his nineteenth year, while Charles 
was at this time only twelve. Charles, of course, then 
became the heir, but he was not made Prince of Wales 
until 1616. And, by the way, Charles I. was executed 
January 30, 1649, not 1648. 

Is it likely that Cromwell would ever have been heard 
of in history if Prince Henry had lived ? 

Vour.s truly, G. O. H . 

Fort Hamilton, Nkw York Harbor. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I often read in your invaluable 
magazine of families where the "grown. up children" 
express themselves as delighted to " still keep on reading 
St. Nicholas," although " so old." I wonder what they 
would say to me, a young mother, with a son a year and 
a half old, who reads every number she can get ? 

With heartiest good wishes for the long life and pros- 
perity of the good Saint ( I mean to bring my boy up on 
him, I assure you), I remain. 

Very truly yours, May H. R . 

Boston, Mass. 

Dear St. Nicholas : 1 am just twelve years old. 
I live in Boston. In summer we all slay at our cottage 
by the sea. 

I thought I would write you a letter about our 
"Tommy." I suppose almost every little girl has a 
cat ; but we think our I'ommy a very wonderful one. 
He is at least fourteen years old. Papa says. He is of a 
bright black color, and has a white tip on the end of his 
tail. He is good-natured, and very aflectionate. He 
always eats his dinner with the family, and has a stool 
and plate all to himself. He is very neat and does not 
soil the table-cloth. He knows us all when we come 
into the room, and gives us a kiss with his black nose. 
One evening the maid was going to bed, and she went to 
the cellar to let Tom up ; she called "Tommy, Tommy," 
but no Tommy came. The next morning he did not 
come home, nor did he all day long. At night she was 
waiting on the table, and suddenly the family heard a cat 
mew. She went to the door to let him in. He ran 
to the dining-room and got up on his stool. He was 
very weak, and his feet (which really were white) were 
black as coal. We thought he had been taken away and 
shut in a coal-bin. When he hears the dinner-bell, he 
runs, and is the first one at the table. I have a dress he 
likes very much. When we go to the sitting-room after 
dinner, if I have on the dress he likes, he lies in my lap 
and takes a nap while I read. Tommy is getting so old 
now that sometimes we have to carry him upstairs ; but 
he loves us all very much, and we are very fond of him. 
He knows us all when we come in, by our voices. 
Mamma has painted a portrait of him for Grandpapa. 

Edith B . 

The Manse, Scone, Perth, Scotland. 

Dear St. Nicholas: It is now nearly five years 
since I began to read your delightful pages. A kind 
American friend who was once here has sent you to me 
all this time; and I think some of your readers would 
like to hear something about the place I live in, as I have 
never seen a letter from this part of Scotland. This is 
one of the oldest parts of the world. There is not very 
far from our house a grand old palace, near which stood 
the stone upon which all the kings and queens of Scot- 
land have been crowned. But in the thirteenth century 
the English were so covetous of it that they took it away 
from us, and now it stands in Westminster, London, and 
upon it stands the coronation chair where all the English 
sovereigns have been crowned, and upon which, I be- 
lieve, Victoria sat at her Jubilee, two years ago. Some 
people say that this is the very stone that Jacob used as 
a pillow when he dreamed the wonderful dream of the 
ladder — but Father says that is nonsense. 

This stone, however, has something wonderful about 
it. It has been called for more than a thousand years 
the " Stone of Destiny." And this has been said of it : 

" Wherever rests this holy static, 
The Scottish race shall surely reign ! " 

Up to this time, this has turned out true. All the 
people of your country who come to England go to see 
this stone. 

Although you have no king or queen, yourselves, I 
have no doubt if you a stone like this you would 
soon get one, and save the trouble of so many elections. 
I remain, your constant reader, 

Bessie T. B , age 13. 

We thank the young friends whose names follow for 
pleasant letters which we have received from them : Mary 
C. B., Mildred C, Fred B., Bettie E. T., Mabel P. H., 
Cornelia S., James L. S., Constance K. H , Robert H. 
C, Zoe G. S", W. Dorman, Charlotte E., Rose M. H., 
Belle A. H., Katie R. C, Gerty L., Emily B. and Alice 
M., M. Agnes B., Albert L. K., Helen L., Stanley W., 
Lucia W. M., Helen and Alfred M., Adele C, Mabel S., 
Harry N. B., "The Little Left-handed Girl," Anna H., 
C. M. v., " The Two Margarets," E. W. T., Carmen W., 
" Rae and Gae," G. F. and C. G., Richard T. W., Isabel 
V. M. L., E. S. Hine, Elizabeth F., Charlotte E. B.,G. C, 
Edith F., Ralph G., Harry B., Lilv G., M. J. S., Lucille 
W. S., Muriel D., Nettie P. R., Pansv M., Agnes M., 
Hamish C, Stella C, Alfreda H. W., Amar, Orville C. 
P., " Ida," Hyacinthe S. C, Margaret S. B., Honoria 
P., Hattie W., N. Reall, "Clara, Allan, Alice, Georgie, 
Mav, and Grace," Mildred D. C, Majorie B. A., Mary 
Emma W., Marvin D., Astley P. C. A., L. de B. P., 
Carrie R., Mamie L., Edith and Adele, Marie L. S., 
J. G. P., Hellen,Zillah,and Bessie S., Natalie M., Cathe- 
rine and Alexandre de M-N., Charlotte P., Louisa B., 
Louise C, Hildegarde H., G. F. Dolson, May A. W. 



Double Acrostic. Primals, Christmas Tide; finals, 
Childermas Day. Cross-words: i. Chromatic. 2. Hem- 
istich. 3. Ranunculi. 4. Impartial. 5. Stupefied. 
6. Turbinate. 7. Midsummer. S. Asphaltum. 9. Sub- 
strata. 10. Tinctures. 11. Impeached. 12. Discordia. 
13. Extremity. 

Illustrated Puzzle. Arthur Penrhyn Stanley. 
Cross-words : I. Holly. 2. Tents. 3. Horns. 4. Dance. 

5. Parry. 6. Fruit. 

Double Diamond. Across: i. M. 2. Cit. 3. Palet. 
4. Horicon. 5. Detur. 6. Tim. 7. A. Downward : 
1. H. 2. Pod. 3. Caret. 4. Militia. 5. Tecum. 6. Tor 
(rid). 7. N. 

Double Final .A.crostic. Fourth row (downward), 
Mistletoe ; fifth roiv (upward), Xmas Story. Cross- 
words: I. Palmy. 2. Choir. 3. Lasso. 4. Scott. 5. Foils. 

6. Moles. 7. Aorta. 8. Axiom. 9. Silex. 

Pentagon, i. S. 2. Awe. 3. Arias. 4. Swingle. 

5. Eagles. 6. Sleep. 7. Espy. 
Pi. January sparkles cold, 

February glitters, 
March comes in, a muddy scold, 
April sobs and titters; 
Tracking close her bridesmaid May, 
Blushes June with roses sweet ; 
Then the smell of new-mown hay, 
Tlien the waves of golden wheat, 
Then the sentinel of Fall; 
Then the wizard month of all ; 
Then the fireside glows, and then 
Christmas comes to earth again. 
Di.^gonal. Diagonals, Mozart. Cross-words: i. Mid- 
dle. 2. Cohort. 3. Wizard. 4. Canada. 5. Unfurl. 

6. Packet. 

To our Puzzlers : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th 
of each month, and should be addressed to .St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East 
Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the October Number were received, before October 15th, from J. B. 
Swann — Paul Reese — "The Wise Five" — David and Jonathan — " Maxie and Jackspar " — Helen C. McCleary — 
Josephine Sherwood — Blanche and Fred — Jo and I — IdaC. Thallon — Jamie and Mamma — " Wit and Humor" — 
Granbery — A. L. W. L. — Nellie L. Howes — William H. Beers — No Name, Elizabeth, N. J. — Mary L. Gerrish. 

Answers to Puzzles in the October Number were received, before October 15th, from Marion 
Hughes, I — " Al. Addin," 2 — Joseph J. Cornell, I — Thorne Blandy, I — Two Cousins, 3 — Laura G. Levy, 8 — 
Maude E. Palmer, 9 — A. B. Burns, 2 — Uncle Wise, i — Alice M. Smith, 4 — Ruth Myers and Alta Fellows, i — 
May Smith, 5 — Mary E. Colston and Mamma, 4 — Double Beach, i —Gertrude Fulton, 3 — John Simpson, i — 
Hubert Bingay, 6 — George Seymour, 9 — Laura Pandely, i — Dudley S. Steele, Jr. , i — No Name, New York, 2 — 
John W. Frothingham, Jr., 4 — May Balfour, i — " Richard Cceur de Lion," I — Honora G. S., 2 — Agnes Willard 
Bartlett, 2 — "Two Dromios," 3 — "Three School Girls," 4 — Milly Vincent, i — A. E. Wickes, 2 — " Hermia," i — 
Anna W. Ashhurst, 5 — A. P. C. Ashhurst, 3 — L- deB. P., I — Effie K. Talboys, 7 — Carrie Rockwell, i — Frank 
Warren, i — Freddie Sutro, 2 — Katie Van Zandt, 4 — Margaret L. P., 2 — Ethel Taylor, I — Hattie Wilder, i — 
Eire B., i — Fred Banister, 3 — F. H. P. and R. B. L., i — Grace McBride, 1 — Arthur B. Lawrence, 2 — Bella 
Myers, i — J. S. N., 7 — Bessie Mcintosh, i — "May and '79," 6 — M. H., 2 — "Miss FUnt," 9 — Lillian and 
BerthaCushing, 2 — .\lbert E. Clay, 7— Eddie T. Lewis, i— Charles Beaufort, 3—" Little Women," 4 — 'Grand- 
ma," 6 — Mamma and Jenny, 2 — "The Trio," 7 — Mabel E. Bremer, i — H. M. C. and Co., i — Mary Cave and 
Grace AUonby, 3 — E. R. Tinker, Jr., I — Lisa D. Bloodgood, 5 — Ellen Smith, 5 — " Dombey and Son," 4 — 
"Skipper," 3 — Willie Curtiss, i — .-Mice H. Guild, I — Edna McNary, i — Flora G. Clark, I — "Coeurde Lion and 
Shakespeare," 7 — "All Work," 7. 

Telvew rome fibluteau sthmon ot gwins 
Mofr teh bingned boguh fo emit, 
Ot dub nad slomsob ni suyjoo grinsp 
Nad dilye ni eth mursems emrip ' 
Chir tifur fo bolen thoghut dan dede 
Rof eht tumuna, ster dan eht stewrin eden. 

4. A tool. 5. Some. 5. A hotel. 7. To command. 
8. A fit of peevishness. 9. An animal. 10. Wary. 
II. A meadow. 12. A foreign watering-place. 13. .\ 
vine. 14. A beverage. 15. A portion. 16. A habitual 
drunkard. 17. Modern. alpha zeta. 



The diagonals, from the upper left-hand corner to the 
lower right-hand corner, will spell the name of a little 
cripple figuring in one of Dickens's stories. 

Cross-words: i. Affliction. 2. The smallest kind of 
type used in English printing. 3. The owner of a famous 
box which is fabled to have been bestowed by Jupiter. 
4. A man who attends to a dray. 5. A large artery. 
6. Conciliatory. 7. A reward or recompense, c. B. 


Each of the words described contains the same num- 
ber of letters. When these are rightly guessed, and 
placed one below the other, the zigzag, beginning at the 
upper left-hand corner, will spell the name of a famous 
American statesman who was born in January, I757- 

Cross-words : i. A tree. 2. Aihng. 3. Misery. 

8 . 

7 ■ 

6 . 5 

From i to 2, a product of North Carolina; from 2 to 
3, a color ; from 3 to 4, a cave ; from 4 to 5, a pile of cloth ; 
from 5 to 6, equal value ; from 6 to 7, a fabulous bird ; 
from 7 to S, a carriage; from 8 to i, a small animal. 

Across: i. A sailor. 2. .Abundant. 3. Fought. 4. A 
diplomatist's companion. 5. A badge on the sleeve. 
6. A musical drama. 7. A tap. H. AND B. 




6. A measure of thirty-six bushels. 7. Bestowed liber- 
ally. 8. Painful. 9. Stipends in cathedral churches. 
10. A kind of rose. 11. Simulation. 12. Accosting. 
13. A member of a princely court. r. s. F. 



From i to 14, hackneyed ; from 2 to 14, a wandering 
troop; from 3 to 14, a bird whose figure is often used 
as an heraldic emblem ; from 4 to 14, destitute of color ; 
from 5 to 14, a fraction of a pound; from 6 to 14, an 
East Indian coin; from 7 to 14, faithful ; from 8 to 14, 
compact ; from 9 to 14, a fund ; from 10 to 14, a scale; 
from II to 14, a corner; from 12 to 14, to tinge deeply; 
from 13 to 14, a river of Europe. 

Perimeter, from I to 13, will form three words, — a 
subject of frequent discussion. 


Reading Downward: i. In salad. 2. Amass of 
unsorled type. 3. A monstrous bird of Arabian mythol- 
ogy. 4. A very light substance. 5. A rodent of the 
genus Lepus. 6. An abbreviation often found in anthol- 
ogies. 7. Rodents of the genus Mtu. 8. A boy. 9. A 
masculine nickname. 10. In salad. 

When the words described have been rightly guessed, 
and placed in the manner shown in the diagram, the 
upper and lower rows of letters (indicated by stars) 
will spell the Christian name and surname of a famous 
writer of Christmas stories. 



1 ■ 


16 10 

15 II . 

14 12 



I. I. In sunflower. 2. .\ Hebrew. 3. A gem. 4. Per- 
taining to the commencement of the year. 5. Abound- 
ing with useless plants. 6. A poem. 7. In sunflower. 

II. I. In cabin. 2. .\ projecting part of a wheel. 
3. Dens. 4. A country of Europe. 5. To deserve. 6. 
To hold a session. 7. In cabin. F. P. AND D. N. 


Each of the words described contains eight letters. 
When these are rightly guessed and placed one below 
the other, in the order here given, the fourth row of let- 
ters, reading downward, will spell the name of one who 
has been called " the greatest orator that has ever lived 
in the Western hemisphere''; he was born in January, 
17S2. The fifth row of letters will spell the name of 
another famous orator who succeeded the former in an 
important office; he died in January, 1S65. 

Cross-words : i. Blames. 2. A place of Miss. 3. In 
a descending course. 4. Disagreement. 5- Slandered. 

I. From I to 9, evidence; from 2 to lo, a Jewish 
title of respect ; from 3 to 11, a support for a picture; 
from 4 to 12, a single oar used in propelling a boat; 
from 5 to 13, to fascinate ; from 6 to 14, outlay ; from 
7 to 15, an instructor; from 8 to 16, hackneyed. 

Perimeter of wheel (from i to 8), a distinguished his- 
torian who died January 28, 1859. Hub of wheel, the 
surname of a President of the United States who was 
born January 7, 1800. 

II. From I to 9, a proper name found in II. Samuel, 
II, 3 ; from 2 to 10, a very famous singer ; from 3 to 11. 
a masculine name; from 4 to 12, a rich fabric; from 5 
to 13, one of the West Indies ; from 6 to 14, mimicking ; 
from 7 to 15, a country of East Africa; from 8 to 16, 
to long for. 

Perimeter of wheel (from i to 8), a church festival 
occurring in January. Hub of wheel, the name of a State 
admitted into the Union in January, 1837. F. S. F. 





Vol. XVII. 

FEBRUARY, 1890. 

No. 4. 



By John P. Dunning, 

Lately Correspondent at Samoa for the Associated Press. 

Something more than a year ago the pohti- 
cal situation at Samoa caused public attention 
to be directed toward that Uttle group of islands 
in the South Pacific. 

Affairs had reached a point which seemed to 
make it necessary for the United States Gov- 
ernment to send a strong naval force there to 
protect American interests, and measures were 
accordingly taken by the Navy Department at 
Washington to have three men-of-war stationed 
at the islands. Both Germany and Great Brit- 
ain were also represented there by a strong force, 
and there was consequently much speculation in 
the United States, as well as in European coun- 
tries, as to the probable result of so large an as- 
semblage of war-vessels in Samoan waters. 

This state of affairs caused my being sent to 
that far-off country by the Associated Press last 
February. My position was that of a news- 
paper correspondent, and my mission was to 
keep the American press informed of events 
happening on the islands. 

Owing to the aggressive policy which had 
been pursued by the German naval forces, it 
seemed possible that serious complications might 
arise between the United States and Germany. 
More than a year before, the Germans had car- 

Copyright, 1889, by The Century Co. 

ried off the native king, Malietoa, and banished 
him to an island several thousand miles away. 
They had then undertaken to establish a new 
government, and had proclaimed Tamasese — a 
native who was easily influenced by them — king 
of the country. Tam.asese's power did not con- 
tinue long, for the great body of the natives soon 
rebelled against an administration which had 
been forced upon them, and they united under 
the standard of Mataafa, a relative and personal 
representative of the deposed king Malietoa. 
At the outset of the difficulty, Tamasese's fol- 
lowing was quite large, and with the support and 
assistance of the Germans he prepared to resist 
the efforts to overthrow him. A fierce civil war 
was waged between the two native factions, and, 
after a half-dozen battles had been fought, Tam- 
asese was forced to leave Apia, where the seat 
of government was located, and take refuge with 
his few remaining followers in a strongly forti- 
fied position about eight miles from there. 

During the whole time that the natives were 
fighting among themselves, the Germans had 
openly espoused Tamasese's cause, and their 
war-vessels had gone so far as e\'en to bombard 
several native villages. 

They did not, however, come into open con- 

All rights reserved. 




flict with Malaafa's men until December, 1888, 
when a body of German sailors landed, several 
miles from AjMa, and made an attack upon the 
natives. The latter olil'ered a strong resistance, 
and, in the battle which followed, the Germans 
were utterly routed and fifty of their number 
killed and wounded. This battle led to an open 
declaration of war on the part of the Germans, 
and their aggressions soon became so alarming 
that American interests in Samoa were thought 
to be endangered. 

At that time the only American man-of-war 
stationed there was the " Nipsic," commanded by 
Commander D. W. Mullan. The actions of the 
Germans were at once brought to the attention 
of the American Government, and orders were 
issued for the " Trenton " and " Vandalia " to 
proceed to Samoa. The Trenton was the flagship 
of Rear-.\dmiral L. \. Kimberly, and was one of 
the largest vessels in the navy. Her commander 
was Captain X. H. Farquhar. The Vandalia 
was smaller than the Trenton, but larger than 
the Nipsic, and was commanded by Captain C. 
M. Schoonmaker. 

When I arrived at .•Xpia, the [mncipal settle- 
ment on the island.s, and, in fact, the only place 
which has any white population, I found six men- 
of-war lying in the little harbor in front of the 
town. Two of these were the American vessels 
Vandalia and Nipsic, and the others were the 
German ships "Adler," "Olga," and " Eber," 
and the British ship "Calliope." The American 
frigate Trenton arrived a few days later. 

Much of the excitement which had prevailed 
on the islands during the few previous months 
had subsided by that time, and 1 felt that my 
mission as a war-correspondent was likely to 
prove fruitless. 

But I had not been at Apia three weeks before 
I was called upon to witness the greatest marine 
disaster of the century, in which four men-of-war 
and ten other vessels were totally wrecked, and 
nearly one hundred and fifty lives were lost. A 
hurricane, which is not an uncommon occur- 
rence in that part of the world, broke upon the 
harbor and raged with a fury hardly to be imag- 
ined for nearly thirty-six hours before it had com- 
pleted its work of destruction. 

I prepared for the Associated Press a long 
account of the storm, wliich was published in 

the newspapers of the country last April ; and 
upon my return from Samoa, a short time ago, I 
was requested by the editor of St. Nicholas 
to write a description of the great disaster, ad- 
dressed especially to its readers. I have under- 
taken the task in the belief that the exciting 
incidents of that awful day, when many a brave 
sailor met his death in the angry waves of Apia 
harbor, will be of intense interest to the youth 
of America, and that the examples of bravery 
and patriotism which were displayed in those 
trying hours will prove valuable lessons to every 
boy in whose heart is growing a love of country 
and an admiration of noble deeds. The account 
that is here given is in some respects identical 
with the news report of the storm « hich I wrote April ; but I have endeavored to embody 
in this a number of personal ex])eriences and 
patriotic features which impressed themselves 
strongly upon me at the time and will live long 
in the memory of all who witnessed the destruc- 
tion of life and property on that occasion. 

The harbor in which the disaster occurred is 
a small semicircular bay, around the inner side 
of which lies the town of Apia. A coral reef, 
which is visible at low water, extends in front of 
the harbor from the eastern to the western ex- 
tremity, a distance of nearly two miles. A break 
in this reef, probably a quarter of a mile wide, 
forms a gateway to the harbor. The space 
within the bay where ships can lie at anchor is 
very small, as a shoal extends some distance out 
from the eastern shore, and on the other side 
another coral reef runs well out into the bay. 

The American consulate is situated near the 
center of the line of houses composing the town, 
and directly in front of it is a long strip of 
sandy beach. The war-vessels were anchored 
in the deep water in front of the American con- 
sulate. The Eber and Nipsic were nearest the 
shore. There were ten or twelve sailing vessels, 
principally small schooners, lying in the shallow 
water west of the men-of-war. 

The storm was preceded by several weeks of 
bad weather, and on Friday, March 15, the wind 
increased and there was every indication of a 
hard blow\ The war-ships made preparation for 
it by lowering topmasts and making all the spars 
secure, and steam was also raised to guard against 
the possibility of the anchors not holding. 

1890 1 




By eleven o'clock at night, the wind had 
increased to a gale. The crews on most of 
the sailing vessels put out extra anchors and 
went ashore. Rain began to fall at midnight, 
and the wind increased in fury. Great waves 
were rolling in from the open ocean, and the 
pitching of the vessels was fearful. The Eber 
commenced to drag her anchors at midnight, 
and an hour later the Vandalia was also drag- 
ging. However, by using steam they succeeded 
in keeping well oft" the reef and away from the 
other vessels. The wind blew more and more 
strongly, and rain fell in torrents. By three 
o'clock the situation had become alarming. 
Nearly every vessel in the harbor was dragging, 
and there was imminent danger of collisions. 
There was no thought of sleep on any of the 
ships, for every man was needed at his post. 

On shore, the howling of the wind among the 
trees and houses, and the crash of falling roofs, 
had aroused many persons from their beds, and 
figures were soon seen groping about the street 
looking for some spot sheltered from the tem- 
pest. The tide was coming in rapidly, and the 
surf was breaking all over the street, a hundred 
feet abo\'e the usual high-water mark. The 
spray was thrown high in the air and beat into 
the windows of houses nearest the shore. Rain 
fell like sleet, and men and women who were 
wandering about in the storm shielded their faces 
with small pieces of board or with any other 
article that could be used as a protection 
against the wind and sand. 

I had spent the evening indoors and had re- 
tired about eleven o'clock. The house which I 

occupied was some distance from the shore and 
was surrounded by a thick growth of trees. 
Several of these had fallen with a crashing sound, 
and I found it impossible to sleep. I arose and 
determined to go down to the beach, for I felt 
that the vessels in the harbor must be in great 
danger. I reached the street with the greatest 
difficulty, for I had two treacherous httle foot- 
bridges to cross, and the night was so dark and 
the force of the wind so great that I felt I was 
wandering about like a blind man. When I had 
walked down to the beach, I looked across the 
angry waters at the lights of the vessels and re- 
alized far more clearly than before that the storm 
was something terrible. I wandered along the 
beach for a distance of half a mile, thinking it 
possible that I might find some one, but the 
whole place seemed to be deserted. The only 
light visible on shore was at the American con- 
sulate. I found a solitary marine on duty as a 
sentry there. I exchanged a few words with 
him and then retired to a temporary shelter for 
several hours, until a number of natives and a 
few white persons commenced to collect on the 
street. The natives seemed to know better than 
the rest that the storm would result in awful 
destruction. People soon gathered in little 
groups and peered out into the darkness across 
the sea of foaming waters. Fear was depicted 
upon every face. Men stood close together and 
shouted to make themselves heard abo\e the 
roar of the tempest. 

Through the blackness of the night could be 
seen the lights of the men-of-war, and even above 
the rushing and roaring of the wind and waves, 




the shouting of officers and men on board 
came faintly across the water. It could be 
seen that the vessels were dragging, as the 
lights were moving slowlv in different direc- 
tions and apparently crossing and recrossing 
each other. Every moment it seemed as if 
two or more of the great war-ships were about 
to come together, and the watchers on the beach 
waited in breathless anxiety to hear the crash 
of collision. 

A little after five o'clock, the first faint rays 
of dawn broke upon the scene and revealed a 
spectacle not often witnessed. The position of 
the vessels was entirely changed. 'J'hey had 

been swept from their 
former moorings and 
were all bearing down 
in the direction of the 
inner reef. Black smoke 
was pouring from their 
funnels, showing that 
desperate efforts were 
being made to keep them 
up against the storm. 
The decks swaiTned with 
men clinging to masts or 
to anything affording a 
hold. The hulls of the 
ships were tossing about 
like corks, and the decks 
were being deluged with 
water as every wave 
swept in from the open 
ocean. Several sailing 
vessels had gone ashore 
in the western part of the 
bay. The Trenton and 
Vandaha, being farther 
out from the shore than 
the other ships, were al- 
most obscured by the 
blinding mist. The ves- 
sels most plainly visible 
were the Eber, Adler, 
and Nijjsic. They were 
very close together and 
only a few yards from 
the reef 

The little gun-boat 
Eber was making a 
desperate struggle, but every moment she was 
being driven nearer and nearer the reef. Her 
doom was certain. Suddenly she shot forward 
as if making a last effort to escape destruction. 
The current, however, bore her off to the right, 
and her bow struck the port quarter of the 
Nipsic, carrying away several feet of the Nip- 
sic's rail and one boat. The Eber then fell 
back and fouled with the Olga, and after that 
she seemed unable to make any effort to save 
herself. Awful seas broke over the little vessel 
as she swung around broadside to the wind. 
Presently she was lifted high on the crest of a 
great wave and hurled with awful force upon 




the reef. In an instant there was not a vestige 
of her to be seen. She struck fairly upon her 
bottom, rolled over toward the sea, and disap- 
peared from \iew. Every timber must have 
been shattered, and half the poor creatures 
aboard of her crushed to death before they felt 
the waters closing above their heads. Hundreds 
of people were on the beach by this time, and 
the work of destruction had occurred within 
full view of them all. They stood for a moment 
appalled by the awful scene, and a cry of hor- 
ror arose from the lips of every man who had 
seen nearly a hundred of his fellow-creatures 
perish in an instant. Then with one accord 
they all rushed to the water's edge nearest the 
point where the Eber had foundered. The 
natives ran into the surf far beyond the point 

lonely isle thousands of miles from his native 
land ; the savage forgot the oppression which 
a civilized people had placed upon him, and 
now held out his hand to save a human life, 
caring little whether it was that of friend or foe. 

At first it seemed as if every man on the ill- 
fated steamer had gone to his death. Not even 
a hand appeared from the depths where the 
Eber sank. But the breakers on the reef had 
hidden a few struggling men who had come to 
the surface and struck out feebly for shore. 

Presently a man was seen clinging to the pil- 
ing of a small wharf near by. Willing hands 
soon grasped him and drew him up on shore. 
He was a young man \vith a handsome, boyish 
face, and wore the uniform of an officer. He 
proved to be Lieutenant Gnedeke, and was the 




where a white man could have lived, and 
stood waiting to save any one who might rise 
from the water. There was no thought of the 
war between Germany and Samoa ; there was 
no sign of enmity against the people who had 
banished their king and carried him off to a 

only officer of the Eber who was saved. Lieu- 
tenant T. G. Fillette, the marine-officer of the 
Nipsic, who for several months had been 
stationed on shore in charge of the guard of 
marines at the American consulate, took the 
German officer under his care. 




Four sailors from the Eber were found strug- 
gling in the water near shore about the same time. 
They were quickly rescued by the natives and 
also taken to the American consulate. There 
were si,\ officers and seventy men on the Eber 
when she struck the reef, and of these five offi- 
cers and sixty-si.x men were lost. 

Lieutenant Gaedeke, the survivor, was almost 
heartbroken over the sad fate of his fellow-offi- 
cers and men. He was the officer of the watch 
and was on the bridge when the Eber went 
down. He said that all the other oflicers were 
below, and he supposed they were crushed to 
death. It was about six o'clock in the morning 
when the Eber foundered. 

During the excitement attending that calamity 
the other vessels had been for the time forgotten ; 
but we soon noticed that the jjositions of several 
of them had become more alarming. The Ad- 
Icr had been swejit across the bay, being for a 
moment in collision with the Olga. 

She was now close to the reef, about two hun- 
dred yards west of the point where the Eber 
struck, and, broadside on, like the Eber, she 
was approaching her doom. 

In half an hour she was lifted on top of the 
reef and turned completely over on her side. 
Nearly every man was thrown into the water. 
They had but a few feet to swim, however, to 
reach the deck, as almost the entire hull was out 
of water. Only twenty men were drowned 
when the steamer capsized. 

The others clung to the guns and masts in 
safety, and as the bottom of the vessel was 
toward the storm, the men on the deck were 
well jirotected. Natives stretched a rope from 
the shore to the Adler during the day, and a 
number of sailors escaped by that means. But 
the rope parted before all had left the vessel, 
and the others were not taken off until next 
day. They clung to the wreck during the long 
weary hours of the day and night, and were 
greatly exhausted when they finally reached the 

Just at'ter the Adler struck, the attention of 
every one was directed toward the Nipsic. 
She was standing oft' the reef with her head 
to the wind, but the three anchors which she 
had out at the time were not holding, and 
the steamer was being beaten back toward the 

point where the Eber went down. It was only 
by the most skillful management that her of- 
ficers and crew were saved from the same 
fate that befell the Eber. The Nipsic also 
narrowly escaped destruction by being run 
into by the Olga, and it was the blow she 
received from that vessel which finally sent 
her ashore. As she was trying to avoid a col- 
lision with the Olga, the little schooner " Lily " 
got in her track and was cut down. There 
were three men on the Lily, two of whom 
were drowned, but the third swam to the Olga 
and reached her deck in safety. 

As the Nipsic's anchors were not holding, or- 
ders were given to attach a hawser to a heavy 
eight-inch rifle on the forecastle and throw the 
gun overboard. As the men were in the act of 
doing this, the Olga bore down on the Nipsic 
and struck her amidships with awful force. 
Her bowsprit [lassed over the side of the 
Nipsic, and, after carrying away one boat and 
splintering the rail, came in contact with the 
smokestack, which was struck fairly in the cen- 
ter and fell to the deck with a crash like thun- 
der. For a moment it was difficult to realize 
what had happened, and great confusion fol- 
lowed. The crew believed the ship was going 
down, and men ran up in the rigging for safety. 
The iron smokestack rolled from side to side 
with every movement of the vessel until finally 
heavy blocks were placed under it. By that 
time, the Nipsic had swung around and was 
approaching the reef. It was an anxious mo- 
ment for all on board. They had seen the 
Eber strike a few yards from where they now 
were, and it seemed certain that they would 
go down in the same way. Having lost her 
smokestack, the vessel was unable to keep up 
her steam power. Captain MuUan was upon 
the bridge at the time, with Ensign H. P. Jones, 
the latter being the oiticer of the watch. The 
captain remained cool and collected during the 
dangerous moment. He saw that in another 
moment the Nipsic would be on the reef, and 
probably every man aboard be lost. Any further 
attempt to save the vessel would be useless, so 
he gave the orders to beach her. The limited 
amount of steam which could still be carried, 
was brought into use and her head was put 
around toward the shore. She had a straight 



course of about two hundred yards to the sandy 
beach in front of the American consulate. 

There were then several hundred natives and 
about fifty white persons, principally Americans 
and Englishmen, standing near the water's 
edge watching the critical nianoeuvers of the 
Nipsic, and I remember the feeling of dread 
which came over me as I saw the vessel nm- 
ning alongside the dangerous reef, liable at any 
moment to be dashed to pieces upon it. As she 
came nearer the shore I could easily distinguish 

Just as the vessel struck, five sailors jumped 
into a boat and commenced to lower it, but the 
falls did not work properly and one end of the 
boat dropped, throwing the men into the water, 
and drowning all of them. Another boat, con- 
taining Dr. E. Z. Derr, the ship's surgeon, and 
a half-dozen sick men, was lowered in safety, but 
it capsized before it reached shore. 

The men were within a few feet, however, 
of the natives who were standing waist-deep in 
the surf, and they were pulled up on the beach 


the faces of officers who were my personal 
friends, and I did not know but that I might 
be looking upon them for the last time. Near 
me were standing United States Vice-Consul 
Blacklock, and Ensign J. L. Purcell, an officer 
of the Nipsic who had been on shore during 
the night. I could judge from their faces that 
their fears were the same as mine. But the 
Nipsic escaped the reef and her bow stuck fast 
in the sand about twenty yards from the water's 
edge. She then swung around, forming an acute 
angle with the line of the shore. 

and taken to the consulate. Several men on the 
Nipsic ran to the rail and jumped overboard. 
All these reached the shore, except two sailors 
who were unable to swim through the current 
and were swept out into the bay and drowned. 
By this time every man aboard had crowded 
to the forecastle. A line was thrown to the na- 
tives, and double hawsers were soon made fast 
from the vessel to the shore, and the natives and 
others gathered around the lines to assist the 
men off. Seumanu Tafa, chief of Apia district, 
and Salu Anae, another chief, directed the 




natives in their work. The scene was one of 
intense excitement. The seas broke upon the 
stem of the Nipsic with awful force, and it 
seemed as if the vessel would be battered to 
pieces before the men on her decks could be 
saved. The waves were rolling high on the 
beach, and the undertow was so strong that 
the natives narrowly escaped being washed out 
into the bay. The rain continued to pour, and 
the clouds of flying sand grew thicker every mo- 
ment. The voices of officers shouting to the 
men on deck were mingled w^ith the loud cries 
and singing of the Samoans as they stood bat- 
tling against the surf, risking their lives to save 
the .\merican sailors. 

To one who saw the noble work of these men 
during the storm, it is a cause of wonder that 
they should be called savages by more enlight- 
ened races. There seemed to be no instinct of 
the savage in a man who could rush into that 
boiling torrent of water that broke upon the reef, 
and ])lace his own life in ])eril to save the help- 
less drowning men of a foreign country. 

While Americans and Germans were treated 
alike, it was plain that their sympathies were 
with the Americans, and they redoubled their 
efforts when they saw an opportunity to aid the 
men who represented a country which had in- 
sisted that their native government should not 
be interfered with by a foreign power. During 
the trying hours of that day they never faltered 
in their heroic efforts when it was possible to 
save a life. 

As the Nipsic lay helpless on the beach, they 
gathered about the vessel and showed a deter- 
mination to risk everything to save the officers 
and men aboard. Nearly all the .\merican and 
English residents of .\pia were on the shore in 
front of the consulate, and there seemed to be a 
willingness on the part of every man to render 
whatever assistance was in his power. Ensign 
Purcell of the Nipsic and several other Ameri- 
cans were up to their waists in the water ready 
to lend a hand to the men as they left the ship. 
The position was a most dangerous one, as the 
waves were washing far up on the beach and 
great pieces of floating wreckage were being 
swept back and forth. The force of the water 
was so strong that it was necessary to hold on 
firmly to the life-line which was stretched from 

the Nipsic's bow, and I remember once that my 
grasp upon the line was broken by an immense 
wave which completely enveloped me. I was 
thrown violently across the rope, and then as the 
water receded I was carried out with it. For- 
tunately, two natives caught me before I had 
gone too far, and with their assistance I grasped 
the line again. There was no attempt to leave 
the Nipsic in disorder. Captain Mullan and 
several other officers stood by the rail where the 
iiawsers were made fast, and directed the move- 
ments of the men. They came down the ropes 
(juickly, but the seas were rolling so high under 
the bows of the ship that the men were often 
entirely submerged and their hold upon the 
lines broken. Nothing but the noble efforts of 
the natives saved them from being swept out 
into the current and drowned. As soon as 
each man would come within reach, he would 
be grasped in the strong arms of half a dozen 
Samoans and carried out of the water. Captain 
Mullan insisted upon being the last man to leave 
the ship, and he finally found himself on the deck 
with Lieutenant John A. Shearman by his side. 
The captain, being unable to swim, did not care 
to descend the rope by means of his hands and 
legs, as all the others had done, so he procured 
an em|)ty water-cask and attached it to the haw- 
ser. When he was seated in the cask. Lieutenant 
Shearman stood alone upon the deck and started 
his brave commander down the hne. The young 
officer then climbed down the rope, and the Nip- 
.sic w^as left alone to battle with the waves. 

The Nipsic, Adler, and Eber were the small- 
est war-ships in the harbor. The four large men- 
of-war, the Trenton, Calliope, Vandalia, and 
Olga, were still afloat and well off the reef. 
They remained in a comparatively safe po.sition 
for two hours after the Nipsic was beached, but 
persons on the shore were watching them in- 
tently all the time. About ten o'clock in the 
morning, the e.xcitement on shore began to grow 
more intense as the Trenton was seen to be in a 
helpless condition. The great vessel was lying 
well out in the bay, and, with every wave that 
rolled in, her stem would be lifted out of the 
water, and it was seen that her rudder and pro- 
peller were both gone, and there was nothing 
but her anchors to hold her up against the 
unabated force of the storm. 



The Vandalia and Calliope also were in dan- 
gerous positions, bearing back toward the reef 
near the point where lay the wreck of the Adler. 
Great waves were tossing the two vessels about, 
and they were coming closer together every 
minute. The Vandalia attempted to steam 
away, but in doing so a collision occurred. 
The iron prow of the Englishman was lifted 
high in the air and came down with full force 
upon the port quarter of the Vandalia. The 
jib-boom of the Calliope was carried away, and 

He accordingly gave orders to let go all anchors. 
The Calliope's head swung around to the wind 
and her engines were worked to their utmost 
power. The steamer seemed to stand still for 
a moment, and then the rapidly revolving pro- 
peller had its effect, for the vessel moved up 
slowly against the great waves which broke over 
her bows and flooded her decks from stem to 
stern. Clouds of black smoke poured from her 
funnel as more coal was thrown into the furnaces. 
Every tension was strained in her heroic strug- 


the heavy timbers of the Vandalia were shivered. 
Every man who stood upon the deck of the 
Vandalia near the point of collision was thrown 
from his feet by the shock. 

A hole was torn below the rail, and water 
rushed into the cabin. It was impossible to as- 
certain the extent of the damage at the moment, 
but it seemed 'as if the Vandalia had received 
her death-blow. Men rushed up the hatches in 
the belief that the steamer was sinking, but they 
afterward returned to their posts. Just after 
this collision, Captain Kane of the Calliope de- 
termined to make an effort to steam out of the 
harbor, as he saw that to remain in his i)res- 
ent position would lead to another collision with 
the Vandalia or throw his vessel upon the reef 

gle against the storm. She seemed to make her 
headway at first inch by inch, but her speed 
gradually increased until it became evident that 
she could clear the harbor. 

This manoauver of the gallant British ship is 
regarded as one of the most daring in naval 
annals. It was the one desperate chance offered 
her commander to save his vessel and the three 
hundred lives aboard. An accident to the 
machinery at this critical moment would have 
meant certain death to all. Every pound of 
steam which the Calliope could possibly carry 
was crowded on, and down in the fire-rooms the 
men worked as they never had worked before. 
To clear the harbor, the Callio])e had to pass 
between the Trenton and the reef, and it re- 




quired the most skillful seamanship to avoid a 
collision with the Trenton, on the one hand, or 
total destruction ujjon the reef, on the other. 
The Trenton's fires had gone out b)- that time, 
and she lay helpless almost in the path of tlic 
Calliope. The doom of the American flagship 
seemed but a cjuestion of a few hours. Nearly 
every man aboard felt that his vessel must soon 


be dashed to pieces, and that he would find a 
grave under the coral reef. Tlie decks of the 
flagship were swarming with men, but, facing 
death as they were, they recognized the heroic 
struggle of the British ship, and as the latter 
passed within a few yards of them a great shout 
went up from over four hundred men aboard the 
Trenton. " Three cheers for the Calliope I " was 
the sound that reached the ears of the Brirish 
tars as they passed out of the harbor in the teeth 
of the storm ; and the heart of every English- 
man went out to the brave American sailors who 
gave that parting tribute to the Queen's ship. 

A well-known London journal afterward re- 
marked, " The cheer of the Trenton's men was 
the expression of an immortal courage. It was 
distressed manhood greeting triumphant man- 
hood, the doomed saluting the saved." The 
English sailors returned the Trenton's cheer, 
and the Calliope passed safely out to sea, re- 
turning when the storm had abated. Captain 

Kane, her commander, in speaking of the inci- 
dent afterward said, " Those ringing cheers of 
the .\merican flagship jjierced deep into my 
heart, and I will ever remember that mighty 
outburst of fellow-feeling which, I felt, came 
from the bottom of the hearts of the gallant 
-Vdmiral and his men. Every man on board 
the Calliope felt as I did ; it made us work to 
win. I can only say, ' God bless America and 
her noble sailors I ' " 

When the excitement on the Vandalia which 
followed the collision with the Calliope had 
subsided, it was determined to beach the vessel. 

Lieutenant J. W. Carlin, the executive officer, 
was practically in command, as Captain Schoon- 
mnker liad been thrown across the cabin the 
night before and severely injured. The captain 
was in a dazed and weakened condition, able to 
do little toward directing the movements of the 
ship; but, notwith.standing his injuries, he faced 
the storm like a hero and stood by the side of 
his first ofticer until the sea finally swe])t him oft' 
to his death. Of all the oflicers who did their 
duty nobly in the face of danger, none received 
more commendation than Lieutenant Carlin. 

Officers and men alike spoke of his conduct 
in the highest terms of praise, and said that his 
cool and calm demeanor kept the men at work 
when panic was almost breaking out among 
them. He had been on duty since the morning 
before and had not tasted food in all that time. 

The Vandalia was obliged to move along the 
edge of the reef, a distance of several hundred 
yards, in order to reach a point in front of the 
American consulate where it was thought safe 
to run her aground. 

Every one on shore stood near the consulate 
and watched the vessel steam across the harbor. 
Her draught was greater than the Nipsic's, and 
it was known that she would not be able to get 
ver)' close to the shore. She came on until her 
bow stuck in the soft sand, about two hundred 
yards off shore and probably eighty yards from 
the stem of the Nipsic. 

Her engines were stopped and the men in 
the engine-room and fire-room below were or- 
dered on deck. The ship swung around broad- 
side to the shore, and it was thought at first that 
her position was comparatively safe, as it was 
believed that the storm would abate in a few 



hours and that the two hundred and forty men 
aboard could be rescued then. 

It was nearly eleven o'clock when the Van- 
dalia struck, and notwithstanding her easy posi- 
tion it soon became apparent that her officers 
and crew were in great danger. Nearly all the 
officers were on the poop-deck, but their faces 
could not be distinguished from the shore on 
account of the blinding mist. The men were 
scattered about on the gun-deck and on the 
forecastle, holding on to the masts and sides of 
the ship. In half an hour it was noticed that the 

to mean certain death, for a boiling torrent of 
water, covered with floating wreckage, was rush- 
ing between the Vandalia and the shore. 

Notwithstanding the peril of such an act, the 
man fastened a small cord to his body, stood by 
the rail a moment, and then plunged into the 
sea. He had hardly touched the water when 
he was thrown violently against the side of the 
ship and knocked into insensibility. 

There was no possibility of saving him, and 
he drowned in sight of all who had witnessed 
his heroic action. 




vessel was settling down. Lying as she did, al- 
most broadside to the wind, the seas broke over 
her furiously and poured down the hatches. 

One by one the boats were torn from their 
davits and swept away. Efforts were made to 
fire lines ashore, but it was impossible to do so 
as the ammunition was saturated with water. 

One brave sailor, named F. M. Hammer, vol- 
imteered to swim through the surf w'ith a line, in 
the hope that his comrades might be rescued in 
that way. It was an undertaking which seemed 

By noon the entire gun-deck of the Vandalia 
was under water, and from that time on the con- 
dition of those aboard was the most pitiable 
that can be imagined. 

The torrents of water that swept over the 
ship knocked the men from their feet and threw 
them against the sides. Several were badly in- 
jured. Most of the men sought refuge in the 
rigging. A few officers still remained upon the 
poop-deck, but a number had gone aloft. The 
wind seemed to increase in fury, and as the hull 




UlrH HI K ^1 K . \(,AIN^T THK COKAI. KKIiK. 



of the steamer sank lower, the force of the waves 
grew more violent. Men on shore were willing 
to render aid, but were powerless. 

No boat could have lived a moment in the 
surf, and it was impossible to get a line to the 
vessel as there was no firing-apparatus on shore. 

The remembrance of those hours when the 
sea was washing over the Vandalia has come to 
me many times since then, and the scene is as 
vivid as it was when I stood on the beach in 
that blinding storm and watched the awful spec- 
tacle. I recalled, then, that a few days previous 
Captain Schoonmaker had been ashore and had 
given me an invitation to go aboard the Van- 
dalia and spend some time with him. Circum- 
stances had prevented me from accepting his 
invitation at the time, but I had intended to 
avail myself of the opportunity of passing a few 
days at least on a man-of-war, and in fact had 
made arrangements to go aboard on the day 
before the hurricane, but the early stage of the 
storm had already set in then, and the bay was 
so rough that the ship could not be reached in 
a small boat with safety, so I had been obliged 
to postpone my visit. I confess that, as I 
watched the vessel that dav and saw the waves 

sweeping men into the sea, I felt that I had had 
a fortunate escape. 

When the distressed condition of the Vanda- 
lia became apparent, three officers of the Nipsic. 
Lieutenant Shearman and Ensigns Purcell and 
Jones, made every effort to rescue the men ; and 
during the whole day and night, with the assist- 
ance of several other Americans and the natives, 
they labored incessantly to reach the doomed 
vessel and used e\er)' means to save the lives of 
the men. 

A long hawser was procured, and three natives 
were found who were willing to venture out in 
the surf with a cord and attempt to reach the 
Vandalia. The men entered the water a quarter 
of a mile above the spot where the steamer lay, 
and struck out into the surf with the cord tied 
to their bodies. 

Shouts of encouragement went up from the 
shore, and the Samoans struggled bravely to 
reach the sunken ship. But, expert swimmers 
as they were, they were unable to overcome the 
force of the current, which rushed down like a 
cataract between the Vandalia and the shore, 
and the men were thrown upon the beach with- 
out being able to get within a hundred yards 




of the vessel. Seumanu Tafa, their chief, urged 
the men to try again, and several other attempts 
were made, but without success. 

It was now evident that many of those on 
the Vandalia would not be able to withstand the 
force of the waves much longer and would be 
swept into the sea. Natives waded into the 
water and stood just on the edge of the cun-ent 
ready to grasp any one who should float near 
them. The seas continued to break over the 
vessel, and it was not long before several men 
were washed over the side. As soon as they 
touched the water they swam for the Nipsic, 
where they grasped ropes hanging over the side 
and attempted to draw themselves on deck. A 
number succeeded in doing this, but others were 
so weak that after hanging to the ropes a mo- 
ment their grasp was broken by the awful seas 
which crashed against the side of the vessel, and 
they would fall back into the current. 

The first man who came ashore was Chief 
Engineer A. S. Greene. 

When he was washed from the deck of the 

and fortunately was able to catch a piece of 
floating wreckage. 

He soon drifted into the current and was 
swept down along the shore. The natives saw 
his head above the water, and they clasped each 
other's hands and formed a long line stretching 
out into the current. As the chief engineer 
swept by, the native farthest out grasped him 
by the arm and brought him to shore. 

Just before he was rescued, another man who 
had been washed from the Vandalia was seen 
clinging to a rope by the side of the Nipsic. 
The waves had torn away all his clothing. 

There were several Vandalia sailors aboard 
the Nipsic by this time, and he shouted to 
them to draw him up, but his voice was lost 
in the roar of the wind, and after clinging to 
the rope a while longer he let go and grasped 
a piece of board which was floating past him. 
He also was drawn into the current and com- 
menced to sweep along the shore. He was 
further out than Chief Engineer Greene had 
been, but the Samoans were making every effort 

■-*■•■-■ *".-,? -»• 



Vandalia, lie swam to the Nipsic and caught a to reach him, and had advanced so far into the 

rope. He hung there for several minutes and current that they were almost carried away 

tried in vain to draw himself up, but finding his themselves. Just as the drowning man was 

strength failing, he dropped back into the water within a few feet of the mouth of a small river, 




where another current would have swept liim 
far out into the bay, the natives caught him and 
drew him ashore. He proved to be H. A. 
Wiley, a young naval cadet. He was carried 
to the consulate insensible, and it was only 
after great exertions that he was resuscitated. 
It was not long after Greene and Wiley were 
washed overboard, that the four officers who 
were drowned were swept from the deck. 
Captain Schoonmaker was clinging to the rail 

refused it. At last a great wave submerged the 
poop-deck. Captain Schoonmaker held on to 
the rail with all the strength he had left, but the 
torrent of water wrenched a machine-gun from 
its fastenings and sent it whirling across the deck. 
The captain was bending down at the time and 
the gun struck him on the head, and either killed 
him outright or knocked him insensible, for the 
wave swept him from the deck. He sank with- 
out a struggle and was seen no more. 


on the poop-deck. Lieutenant Carlin was 
standing by him trying to hold the captain 
on, as the latter was becoming weaker every 
minute. Every one on the deck saw that he 
could not stand against the rush of water much 
longer. No one knew it better than himself, 
and he several times remarked to those about 
him that he would have to go soon. Lieuten- 
ant Carlin tried to get him up in the rigging, 
but the captain said he was too weak to climb 
up and would have to remain where he was as 
long as possible. He had no life-preserver ; one 
had been offered him several times, but he had 

Paymaster Frank H. Arms and Pay Clerk 
John Roche were lying upon the deck ex- 
hausted, but clinging with all the strength they 
possessed to anything which came within their 
grasp. They were washed off together. The 
paymaster sank in a moment, but Roche drifted 
over to the stem of the Nipsic, where he grasped 
a rope. He was a large, fleshy man, and be- 
ing greatly exhausted could not possibly draw 
himself up on the deck. His hold upon the 
rope was soon broken, but he continued to float 
under the stem of the Nipsic several minutes, 
wildly throwing out his arms in a vain attempt 



to clutch something. He finally sank under 
the vessel. Lieutenant Frank E. Sutton, the 
marine officer, died in nearly the same way. 
AVeakened by long exposure and the terrible 
strain to which he was subjected, he was unable 
to retain his hold longer, and was washed over- 
board and drowned. 

During the remainder of the afternoon there 
followed a succession of awful scenes of death 
and suffering not soon to be forgotten. The 
storm had not abated in the least. The wind 
continued to blow with terrible force; waves 
that seemed like mountains of water rolled in 
from the ocean and broke upon the reef and 
over the ill-fated Vandalia. The sheets of water 
which fell from the clouds, and the sand which 
was beaten up from the shore, struck like hail 
against the houses. White men who stood out 
in the storm were often obliged to seek shelter 
to escape the deluge of rain and sand which cut 
the flesh like a knife, and even the natives would 
occasionally run for safety behind an upturned 
boat or a pile of wreckage. 

The Vandalia continued to settle, and the few 
men who had not already taken to the rigging 
stood on the poop-deck or on the forecastle, as 
the vessel amidships was entirely under water. 

Almost twenty-four hours had elapsed since 
any one aboard had tasted food, and all were 
weak and faint from hunger and exposure. 

Men were now washed from the decks and 
rigging a half dozen at a time, and a few, who 
felt that they were growing too weak to hold on, 
jumped into the water, determined to make one 
last effort to save themselves. 

Nearly every man who jumped or was washed 
overboard succeeded in reaching the Nipsic, 
and a number of them climbed upon the deck 
by the aid of ropes. Those who reached the 
deck assisted others who were struggling in the 
water, and several lives were saved in that way. 
But many a poor fellow who reached the Nip- 
sic's side, was unable to hold on to a rope long 
enough to be drawn up, and the seas would 
wash him away and sweep him into the current. 
None of them came near enough to the shore 
to be reached by the natives, and those who 
once got into the current were carried out into 
the bay and drowned. 

As I stood on the beach that afternoon, I saw 
Vol. XVII.— 35. 

a dozen men go down before my eyes. I was 
with Lieutenant Shearman and Ensigns Purcell 
and Jones, Nipsic officers, and Consul Black- 
lock, nearly all the time. We had been drag- 
ging heavy hawsers up and down the beach all 
day and had adopted every means in our power 
to render some assistance to the drowning men. 
As we watched them struggling in the water, 
far beyond any human aid, I remember how we 
felt, that we must do something to reach them ; 
but we were powerless. We had seen a hundred 
German sailors go down, early in the morning, 
and while we had recognized the horror of that 
calamity we were not impressed with the same 
feeling which came upon us as we saw men of 
our own country suffering the same fate. Here 
there was a bond of sympathy which appealed 
to us as Americans, and one who, in a foreign 
land, has ever seen such death and suffering 
befall his fellow-countrymen can appreciate the 
feeling with which we watched those scenes in 
Apia harbor. 

By three o'clock, the Vandalia was resting 
her whole length on the bottom, and the only 
part of her hull which stood out of water was 
the after part of the poop-deck and the forward 
part of the forecastle. Every man was in the 
rigging. As many as could be accommodated 
there, had climbed into the tops and sunk down 
exhausted upon the small platforms. Others 
clung to the ratlines and yards with the desper- 
ation of dying men, expecting every moment 
to be their last. Their arms and limbs were 
bruised and swollen by holding on to the rough 
ropes. A number had been greatly injured by 
falling about the decks, and many a poor crea- 
ture was so benumbed with cold and exposure to 
the biting rain, and so weak from want of food, 
that he sank almost into insensibility and cared 
not whether he lived or died. 

More than one man who was clinging to the 
ratUnes, gave way under the terrible strain and 
fell to the deck, only to be washed over the sub- 
merged side of the ship and drowned. 

A hawser had been made fast from the deck 
of the Nipsic to the shore, and the Vandalia 
men who had escaped to the Nipsic reached 
shore in that way. 

The Nipsic had by that time swung out 
straight from the shore, so that the distance be- 



tween the two vessels was not more than fifty 
yards. A small rope was made fast from the 
foremast of the Vandalia to the stem of the 
Nipsic, and a few men escaped by it, but before 
all in the fore-rigging were rescued, the line 
parted and could not afterward be replaced. 

The terrible scenes attending the wreck of the 
Vandalia had detracted attention from the other 
two men-of-war which still remained afloat ; but 
about four o'clock in the afternoon the positions 
of the Trenton and Olga became most alarm- 
ing. The flagship had been in a helpless con- 
dition for hours. 

At ten o'clock in the morning, her rudder and 
projieller had been carried away by fouling with 
a piece of floating wreckage; and, to add to her 
discomfiture, great volumes of water poured in 
through the hawse-pipes (the large openings in 
the bow through which the anchor-chains pass). 
From ten o'clock in the morning until six in the 
evening, when she grounded, the Trenton held 
out against the storm without steam or rudder, 
and her escape from total destruction was mi- 
raculous. Admiral Kimberly, Captain Farqu- 
har, and Lieutenant Brown, the navigating 
oflicer, stood upon the bridge the whole day and 
directed the movements of the ship. For two 
houi-s before the fires were extinguished, the 
water was rushing in through the hawse-pipes 
and pouring down the hatches into the fire- 
room and engine-room. The men at work 
there were in a most perilous position, as they 
were so far down below the deck that if the 
vessel had gone upon the reef suddenly and 
sunk, they ne\-er could have escaped. Engi- 
neers Gait and ]\Iatthews were in charge of the 
engine-room during the time that the water was 
pouring down the hatches. All the men there 
stood at their posts until they were waist-deep 
in the water and the fires were extinguished. 
The berth-deck also was flooded, and efforts 
were made to close the hawse-pipes. Lieuten- 
ant W. H. Allen remained below all day super- 
intending this work, but, though he was partially 
successful, the force of the water was so great 
that ever)thing placed in the pipes was torn 
out. It was a most dangerous post, as the men 
stationed there had two decks above them, and 
in case the vessel should go down their escape 
was shut off. Allen and his men were deluged 


^\ith the torrents of water which rushed in 
through the openings with every pitch of the 
vessel. It was necessary to work the pumps 
early in the day, and this was kept up con- 
stanll)'. Men never fought against adverse 
circumstances with more desperation than the 
officers and men of the Trenton displayed dur- 
ing those hours w-hen the flagship was beaten 
about by the gale. There \\as not an idle 
man on the ship. The entire supervision of 
affairs outside of the manceuvering of the vessel 
fell upon Lieutenant-Commander H. W. Lyon, 
who afterward received the commendation of 
his superior officers for the eflicient services 
which he rendered during the storm. Among 
the officers who rendered most valuable assist- 
ance were Lieutenants Graham, Scott, and Allen, 
and Ensign Blanden. 

By the skillful use of a storm-sail, the Trenton 
kept well out in the harbor until the middle of 
the afternoon, and then she was forced over to- 
ward the eastern reef. Destruction seemed im- 
minent, as the great vessel was pitching heavily, 
and her stern was but a few feet from the reef. 
This point was a quarter of a mile from shore, 
and if the Trenton had struck the reef there, it is 
probable that not a life would have been saved. 
A skillful manoeuver, which was suggested by 
Lieutenant Brown, saved the ship from destruc- 
tion. Every man was ordered into the port 
rigging, and the compact mass of bodies was 
used as a sail. The wind struck against the 
men in the rigging and forced the vessel out into 
the bay again. Slie soon commenced to drift 
back against the Olga, which was still standing 
off the reef and holding up against the storm more 
successfully than any other vessel in the harbor 
had done. The Trenton came slowly down on the 
Olga, and this time it seemed as if both vessels 
would be swept on the reef by the collision and 
crushed to pieces. People on the shore rushed 
to the water's edge and waited to hear the crash 
which would send to the bottom both men-of- 
war and their loads of human lives. Notwith- 
standing the dangerous situation of the ships, a 
patriotic incident occun-ed at this time which 
stirred the hearts of all who witnessed it. The 
storm had been raging so furiously all day that 
not a flag had been raised on any of the vessels. 
As die Trenton approached the Olga, an officer 



Standing near Admiral Kimberly suggested that 
the flag be raised. The Admiral, whose whole 
attention had been absorbed in directing the 
movements of the ship, turned for a moment to 
the group of oflicers near him and said, "Yes; 
let the flag go up ! " 

In an instant the stars and stripes floated from 
the gaff of the Trenton, and to those on shore it 
seemed as if the gallant ship knew she was 
doomed, and had determined to go down with 
the flag of her country floating above the storm. 
The Olga, seeing the approach of the Trenton, 
attempted to steam away, but just as she had 
commenced to move up against the mnd, her 
bow came in contact with the starboard quarter 
of the flagship. The heavy timbers of the 
Trenton's quarter were shivered, several boats 
were torn from the davits, and the American flag 
which had just been raised was carried away and 
fell to the deck of the Olga. Fortunately, the 
vessels drifted apart after the collision, and no 
serious damage was done. The Olga steamed 
ahead toward the mud-flats in the eastern part 
of the bay, and was soon hard and fast on the 
bottom. Not a life was lost, and several weeks 
later the ship was hauled off and saved. . 

The Trenton was not able to get out into the 
bay again after her collision with the Olga. 
She was now about two hundred feet from the 
sunken Vandalia, and was slowly drifting to- 
ward the shore. A new danger seemed to arise. 
The Trenton was sure to strike the Vandalia, 
and to those on shore it seemed that the huge 
hull of the flagship would crush the Vandalia 
to pieces and throw into the water the men still 
clinging to the rigging. It was now after five 
o'clock, and the daylight was beginning to fade 
away. In a half hour more, the Trenton had 
drifted to within a few yards of the Vandalia's 
bow, and feelings hard to describe came to the 
hundreds who watched the vessels from the 

The memory of the closing incidents of that 
day -will cling to me through life, for they were 
a spectacle such as few have ever seen. No 
American can recall those patriotic features 
without feeling a glowing pride in the naval 
heroes of his country. I was standing with 
others as far down on the beach as it was safe 
to be, watching the ships through the gathering 

darkness, and every incident that occurred came 
under my personal notice. 

Presently the last faint rays of daylight faded 
away, and night came down upon the awful 
scene. The storm was still raging with as much 
fury as at any time during the day. The poor 
creatures who had been clinging for hours to 
the rigging of the Vandalia, were bruised and 
bleeding ; but they held on with the desperation 
of men who were hanging between life and 
death. The ropes had cut the flesh on then- 
arms and legs, and their eyes were blinded by 
the salt spray which swept over them. Weak 
and exhausted as they were, they would be un- 
able to stand the terrible strain much longer. 
They looked down at the angry waters below 
them, and knew that they had no strength left 
to battle with the waves. The final hour 
seemed to be upon them. The great black 
hull of the Trenton could be seen through the 
darkness almost ready to crash into the stranded 
Vandalia and grind her to atoms. Suddenly a 
shout was borne across the waters. The Tren- 
ton was cheering the Vandalia. The sound of 
four hundred and fifty voices broke upon the 
air and was heard above the roar of the tem- 
pest. " Three cheers for the Vandalia ! " was 
the cry that warmed the hearts of the dying 
men in the rigging. 

The shout died away upon the storm, and 
there arose from the quivering masts of the 
sunken ship a response so feeble it was scarcely 
heard upon the shore. Men who felt that they 
were looldng death in the face, aroused them.- 
selves to the eftbrt and united in a faint cheer 
for the flagship. Those who were standing on 
the beach listened in silence, for that feeble cry 
was the saddest they had ever heard. Every 
heart was melted to pity. " God help them ! " 
was passed from one man to another. The 
cheer had hardly ceased when the sound of 
music came across the water. The Trenton's 
band was playing " The Star-Spangled Banner." 
The thousand men on sea and shore had never 
before heard strains of music at such a time 
as that. An indescribable feeling came over 
the Americans on the beach who listened to 
the notes of the national song mingled -nith the 
howling of the storm. 

Men who had exhausted every means, during 



the whole of that awful day, of rendering some 
assistance to their comrades, now seemed in- 
spired to greater effort. They ran about the 
beach eager to afford help, even at the risk of life 
itself. They looked despairingly at the roaring 
torrent of water that broke upon the shore, and 
knew that no boat could live in such a sea. 
Bravely as the Samoans had acted, there was 
not one of them who would again venture 
into the surf, where certain death would befall 

Persons on shore were simply powerless, and 
there was nothing to do but remain on the beach 
ready to lend assistance in any possible way 
which might present itself 

But the collision of the Trenton and Vanda- 
lia, instead of crushing the latter vessel to pieces, 
proved to be the salvation of the men in the 
rigging. When the Trenton's stern finally struck 
the side of the Vandalia, there was no shock, and 
she swung around broadside to the sunken ship. 
This enabled the men on the Vandalia to es- 
cape to the deck of the Trenton, and in a short 
time they were all taken off. 

By ten o'clock at night, the natives and nearly 
all the white persons who had watched the 
storm, seemed to be satisfied that no further 
harm could come to the two ships; and the 
shore, which had been thronged with people 
all day, was soon deserted. The three Nipsic 
officers and myself patrolled the beach all night 
in the hojie of rescuing some one who might 
not have escaped to the Trenton. We found 
but one man, Ensign Ripley, who had jumped 
from the Vandalia before the Trenton touched 
her, and had reached the shore. He was hang 
on the beach exhausted and about to be washed 
out by the undertow when we came upon him 
and carried him to the consulate. The storm 

had abated at midnight, and when day dawned 
there was no further cause for alarm. The men 
were removed from the Trenton and provided 
with ()uarters on shore. 

During the ne.\t few days the evidences of 
the great disaster could be seen on every side. 
In the harbor were the wrecks of four men-of- 
war : the Trenton, Vandalia, Adler, and Eber ; 
and two otiicrs, the Xipsic and Olga, were hard 
and fast on the beach and were hauled off with 
great difficulty. The wrecks of ten sailing ves- 
sels also lay upon tiie reefs. On shore, houses 
and trees were blown down, and the beach was 
strewn with wreckage from one end of the town 
to the other. 

Above the whole scene of destruction the 
stars and stripes and the flag of Rear-Admiral 
Kimberly floated from the shattered masts of 
the Trenton, as if to indicate that America was 
triumj)hant even above the storm. The Ameri- 
can naval forces took entire control of the town, 
and a guard of marines, under Captain R. W. 
Huntington of the Trenton and Lieutenant 
Fillette of the Nipsic was stationed in every 
locality to prevent any trouble which might 
arise on account of the great confusion which 
prevailed on shore. 

A muster showed that one hundred and forty- 
four lives had been lost in the storm. Of these, 
ninety-one were from the German ships Eber 
and Adler. The Vandaha had lost four officers 
and thirty-nine men, and the Nipsic had lost 
seven men. One man was killed on the Trenton 
by a piece of fl}'ing timber, and two victims 
from the schooner Lily were added to the list. 

Not more than one-third of the bodies were 
recovered. The others were either swept under 
the coral reefs in the harbor, or washed far out 
to sea. 


By Nora Perry. 

Chapter VI. 

C.\THY turned, and there, between the por- 
tieres that separated them from the next room, 
stood — Mrs. Bartlett ! How much had she 
heard? She had heard enough. Her cheeks 
were scarlet ; her eyes were bright with unshed 
tears. Silent from horror in the first moment, 
in the next, as she saw that look of hurt, May's 
heart rose up in one pitiful, pitying, appealing 
cry, and that cry was : 

" Oh, Mamma ! Mamma ! " 

Mrs. Bartlett lifted her head with a quick 
start; she began to speak: "May, I — " then 
her voice broke, and the tears that had been 
withheld overflowed. 

Just here, " Margaret, Margaret, where are 
you all ? " Mr. Bartlett was heard calling im- 
patiently as he approached from the other room. 

Margaret dried her eyes with a swift move- 
ment, and, with an entreating, " Come, girls, 
come with me," turned away. 

Thoroughly subdued and not a little fright- 
ened, Cathy made no further attempt at delay, 
but followed the others as they obeyed Mrs. 
Bartlett's entreaty. 

Going down the stairs, Susy, pressing close 
to Joanna, whispered softly : 

" Joanna, did you notice May called her step- 
mother ' Mamma,' and did you norice her step- 
mother's face ? She cried, but there was a little 
smile there, did you notice, Joanna ? " 

Joanna squeezed Susy's hand for reply. She 
had noticed, but she fancied no one else had 

How the party ended, May could scarcely 
have told you. Everything was like a bad 
dream after this, and she moved about mechani- 
cally in the supper room, answering questions, 
now and then seeing that some one was served, 
but taking nothing herself; once or twice she 
saw her stepmother looking at her, but she 
could not meet the glance. Cathy took things 

more easily. Back again among the lights, 
the flowers, and the young people, her spirits re- 
turned in a measure, though with a wholesome 
difference of restraint. May observed her ease 
with astonishment. She could think of nothing 
but that dreadful talk upstairs, specially of that 
last sentence which her stepmother had over- 
heard. And how much more had been over- 
heard ? 

All the instincts of a lady were beginning to 
work in May's mind, and to fill her with self- 
disgust and shame. She felt like a little traitor 
in her own household — a traitor to her father, 
and an ungenerous enemy to her father's wife 
— an ungenerous enemy from the first, when 
she had willfully misunderstood, and — yes, will- 
fully misrepresented the matter of the garden 
party. Then one by one her other " grievances " 
came up — " grievances " that she had made 
much of and confided to Cathy ! Oh, those con- 
fidences to Cathy ! They reminded her of the 
old mythological story of the dragon's teeth 
that Cadmus blindly sowed. They had come 
up like armed men to destroy her. 

It had been part of the arrangement, when 
Cathy had been permitted to spend her vacation 
at the Bartletts', that she should return on Satur- 
day afternoon to the seminary, that she might 
be all ready for school duties upon Monday. 
The party had been the excuse for extending 
the hour of return to evening. Both Cathy and 
May, at the beginning of the week, had urged, 
but without effect, that the visit might e.xtend 
to Monday morning. Now, both felt a sense 
of relief that they were to separate that night. 
Cathy, as usual, was the easier of the two, as 
the final good-byes were said. Her glib tongue 
did not falter even when she faced Mrs. Bart- 
lett, though, to her credit be it said, a deep blush 
suffused her cheeks as that lady came forward 
with a kindly courtesy the girl knew she did not 
deserve to receive. As for May, the hardest 
time of all was when the last carriage drove 


MAY liAKiiKirs srb:rMornKu. 


away an».l ^^he was left alone with her father ami 
his wife. Her lather woviKl be sure to say some- 
thing aKntt Cathy's behavior, though, thanks to 
her &tci>mother, she knew he had hearvl nothing 
of what hail occurreil mvstairs. rerhaj«, how- 
ever, she couKl escape. It \vi>s a late hour for 
her, anil she woulil say gooil-night in the hall 
anil run up to IhxI, She was half-way up the 
stairway when Mr. IJartlett calleil out quickly ; 

• May ! " 

She stoppeil suiKlenly, her heart beating vii.>- 
lently, her huilv; treuibliug. Ihe next uiiunent, 
she startt.\l backwaixl, stumbk\l anil — fell. 

•• My j<-itr:" anil her lather sprung forwanl, 
anil lil\i\l her in his arms. She la\ there quite 
still anil very jale. " Are you hurt ? " She shook 
her head, sniilevl a little, anil trieil to help her- 
self. As she did so she crii;\l out w ith juin : 

" Oh, my foot 1 " 

She had sjiraineil her ankle. 

"Send for Mrs. Marks, Mangaret." Mr. Ibrt- 
lett s.ud, as he carrieil May int ' 

"Mrs. Marks went to IkxI .; , a- 

warvl, with a sick headache, but if it is a sjwraui — 

I know " ' '. if yv>u will trust 

me," — '. ^-urt — "you and 

May," arid she iookeii liown upon May with 
questioning eyes. 

" Of course, we 'U trust you ; we 't« only too 
glad to, are n't we. Maisie ? " 

May gave a shy assent in a taint "yes," 
yet there was an expression in her face that 
dill no. Mrs, Ikxrtlett's eyes. It w.»s 

an exi 'i dread tnixeil with shame. 

But ignonng all this she set about her work 
of relief in a pleasant, easy manner, sending 
Julie for hot water and tundagi-s, then softly 
m.mipuUuing the sproineil ankle, with a touch 
both sure and skillful, i'here was something 
in this touch, delicate and firm, that brought 
up to May. by - e of contrast, Mrs, 

Marks's heavy-h. e. The light move- 

ment, toos the soiVvoiceil orviers, the ease 
of everything — all were so difiereni from Mrs. 
Marks s bustling ways, her step that shook the 
room, her incessant talk of pity and question 
aiKl arixiety. -^ ■" -- ,r an accident put any one 
mxler her r ^. 

By degrees. May lo^J s. -f that con- 

scious feelini; of dread .v ■'> s^-' 'av 

there. Even when Julie left the KKan for the 
night, and May found herself quite aloi\e with 
her sttpmolher, the dixad did not nturn, and 
the ki-en feeling of shame was softcnetl by a 
sense of sorn>w and humility for all that she 
had thought and siiid. It was just when this 
feeling was stri>ng within her that her step- 
mother, turning ilown the light, appnxrcheil 
the Ik\1 with the wonls: 

" rhere, my ilear, I ha\ e put this stand beside 
vou with a bell upon it. and if vou need me, 
\ou have only to ring and 1 sluiU hear you atid 
come to you. Vou say your ankle does not 
{>ain you very much now ? " 

" Not nearly as much — just a little." 

" Well, 1 shall be in the next nxMn to you, 
anil can come to you in a moment if you neeil 
am thing." 

" In the next nxMn ? " May inquiri\l with 

"Yes, 1 shall sleep on the lounge there 
tivnight to Ix" near you." 

May lookt\l up quickly, and gave a little 
exclamatory " Oh ! " 

" What is it, my dear ? " asked Mrs. Ikirtlett, 
l>ending over her. 

" Nothing," very faintly. 

It was then, with a final adjustment oi the 
Inxl-clothing. that her stepmother, turning to 
go, ^ ^ : 


"i.; I, my ile.u"; and May, closing 

her eyes, answerevl almost in a whispei 

" Gixxl-night, — Mamma." 

In the next instant she iVlt the touch of soft, 
warm hps upon her fi>reheail. She could not 
s{^>eak. She lay quite still. When she oi>enet.l 
her eyes, she was alone. 

On Monday morning, wonl was sent to the 
seminary that Miss Bartlctt had spraineil her 
;inkle and would not be able to attend school 
for a fortnight at least. 

Of course Cathy would be the first to go 
and see May. thought the girls. But Cathy 
seemed to be in no haste to go. She even ex- 
cuse^l herself by saying that she was not well, 
when Itofessor Ingalls proposeil that she should 
take a mess;ige for him to Mrs. Bartlett. And 
so it came about that Joanna and Susy were 
May's first callers. It was Mrs. B-irtlett who 
reccivevl the \i>itors. .ind who went up to an- 


auHBCc i Vm 10 Maj. It hai'j'med ibai she btt May's Bps -Bwe dra-<»TB? Bp frwB iJkm- sad 

did DCit mratSciQ thai m c«cm into iiacs, sad at iihe ca. . bht 

tbe chamber — iJiiti f"*^- -.,. lan^^ud; Juaaaja foUyv..-. . . _ .-. .juiiitd 

*■ Well, my deaj, t ■ j^ s«ioc«l intndi giggte. 

have ccjnjc ro rK-.-cr ■ -"Bnt irhai I ' 

- U.X 1 c-ii 1 — - iI'^lV — iu>-n iriin. - ii that — :: , . . - 

DOW," May caied tat' is bere, that — MamiBa ova^eard." A- 

jOBODcd the word 



bean tdiVXj e, and gave btx grrrtmg 

iJE^ to taOdm; D^ tJu: iiarty, I iL; It bmst uat.*' 

c.- -id *■ some ej ■ — ■ -.—j-: 

b — .ad mar-: — -j-jld u: — 

lime dut had so s^xnled I'r, — «as ler /" qaaiatly a^ked Sasf. 

brao^bs up, aad Jtiamsa tiui^iiiiva vdbe- ■" Oli, - ' I.tsow liov. i im ;..' iij-_:. 

mtsiaJy : rth'Ti I • -TTigs." 

•" I «'*'Tttl .y Boojd 'jH 3XIJ- .3 mean aAer\ 

thiBg. Sbt ^ - ■ '-■ ' ' ■ '•' •" -^ — ' -^ 

■■ danjaralioDg.' - - •' 
10 — U) — " 

J ciaima colored a BnSe and stopped. — ^ . — - 

M:jy took np ha vords — ^** 10 stl me againa -wai j qjeak : 

ir ■ ■ — ' > .1- what ■> ■■ . . TJk 1 ever iaital Arry n -R-ii lae 

r., . -. -.ii — I— . ;.,::..;.-• 

talk — I made ber talk by ttffing her thmgs. Tbert 

I.- :-cd al tbe Tisrty. 1 » 

; , wps rhin gms do S W 

i, — ^ ^. ;,_; ^»_. were imfair and y. .__; way siie iad 

L. .es. I was awfaDy voted wbtai he bee:- ; the whole w^eeL 

i.; ■ li^it.'' nam ozte 

in^y. I "ve been thnikmg how I wjjih she 

. -z r..'. 1 

(.cmitsit-a tics'sri] — way OS vpabov: 

],,, ...... _ . .- T. — s sadden ou:- 

V zmre seriocs}}-. 

„.;..: tnrn" i;!^ - ; : _ ^ -ijOVC ns." 

I, -^ It uas n't a qnesdoD trf one's likmg ier, wab 

- I: " ■ — " -..,..-. 

Mime > — 

Ul" SaOf soddeidy broi^ forth m her qneserest of cosseqosx). — 

•^ Sn^! " aied Joanna, looikiBg at May; 




never wavered. Then, through the last week, 
not only courteous but generously kind. Of 
course she would still go on just the same — 
that was her way — having kindness and con- 
sideration for people who did not deserve it; 
but to have her liking, her loving, — that was 
quite another thing. 

May was silent so long that Joanna felt that 
she was tired, and that it was time for the visit 
to end. 

Going down the stairs the two girls were met 
by Mrs. Bartlctt. 

" What, going so soon ? " she said. " Can't you 
stay longer ? " But when Joanna explained why 
they went, she did not urge them to remain. 

Left to herself, May's thoughts returned to the 
miserable events of the past weeks, the mistakes 
of the past month. If she could talk with her 
stepmother as she had talked to the girls — as 
Susy had recommended I But how could she ? 
" Far off and up above us." Susy's words haunted 
her. No, she could never talk to her as she had 
talked to the girls. Her stepmother had been 
kind to her ; she had kissed her ; but that was 
because she meant to do her duty. Over and 
overpoor May pondered these perplexities. Tired 
and spent at last, she covered her face with her 
hands, and burst into tears. So absorbed was 
she by her miseries that she did not hear the 
door open, nor the fall of a light footstep. She 
heard nothing until a voice close to her, — her 
stepmother's voice, — said gently : 

" My dear, what is it ? — .\re you so tired ? " 

She shook her head ; she was past speaking 
just then. Standing beside her Mrs. Bartlett 
stroked the tumbled hair with soft quiet touches, 
and spoke not a word. By and by, under these 
soothing strokes, the sobs grew less, and, pres- 
ently, ceased altogether. Then smilingly, but 
with an apologetic tone, Mrs. Bartlett said : 

" I 'm afraid I have n't taken very good care 
of you, my dear, to let you get so tired." 

" It was n't that I was tired, I — I — got to 
thinking after Joanna and Susy went away." 

" And I thought Joanna and Susy were go- 
ing to cheer you up." 

" Mamma ! " The color rushed into May's 
cheeks as she said this. 

'• Yes, my dear." 

"I — I want to tell you something. It was n't 

true what Cathy said — that night. I did n't — 
I never hated — you." 

" I never thought you did. I think I under- 
stand. It was — //le stepmother, and I see now 
how you were encouraged by that hot-headed, 
foolish Cathy. My dear, I — " 

" No — no. I — I encouraged Cathy to be- 
gin with. You must n't think it was all Cathy's 
fault." Then, with a swift rush of words, gather- 
ing up her courage with the desperate determi- 
nation that had come to her, May poured forth 
her confessions. All her little prejudices, her 
willful injustices, were told unsparingly, and at 
the end, with a little shivering sigh that was half 
a gasp, she burst out : 

" But I never said what Cathy — thought I 
did — never, never ! " 

" My dear ! " 

For the first time since she had fairly started 
on her story May looked up and met her step- 
mother's eyes. They were full of tears, but the 
lips were struggling to smile, to speak. The 
girl was startled at these signs of pain. Had 
she said too much in this confession ? Some- 
thing of this doubt found utterance. Then the 
smile gained over the tears. 

" Too much ? My dear, you have done the 
best thing in the world for both of us. Now we 
can understand each other. Oh, you poor lonely 
little girl — to think of all these weeks that you 
have suffered so ! It makes my heart ache." 

May heard these words with bewilderment. 

" I thought I was acting for the best when I 
let things take their course and waited. I thought 
you would resent my going forward, and all this 
rime I was leaving you to such influence — no, 
I am not going to blame Cathy, altogether, 
but I ought to have gone forward to you at 
once — I could have trusted the girl who has 
been brave enough to tell the truth as you 
have. You would have done me justice, I am 
sure. But now we are to be friends — you are 
not going — to hate — even the stepmother ? " 

She smiled and put out her hand, as she said 
this, taking May's cold little fingers in hers. 
" No, not even the stepmother, my dear," smil- 
ing now a little archly. " You have something 
to forgive her, perhaps, for coming to you with 
so little warning. But I had not intended to — 
to come so soon. It was an accident. My 



old guardian with whom I had lived since I 
was a child, was failing in health, and wished 
to break up his household and go abroad ; but he 
made it a point that I must be married before 
he went. He was very fond of your father and 
had great trust in him, and he wanted to trans- 
fer the care of my property, as well as of myself, to 
his hands at once. I had not intended to make 

life,' and probably has many years before him ; 
and, May, your dear mother, when she knew that 
she must leave you both, said to him : ' Don't 
live alone long. Find somebody whom you can 
love and who will love you and be good to 
May.' And, my dear, I love him very much, 
and I want to ' be good to May,' and love her, 
too, if she will let me." 


this change for six months at least, but when 
your father joined with my guardian in urging 
it, I yielded, and was guided by him, as we are 
all guided by those we love and trust. Your 
father would have told you all this, no doubt, if 
you had been a little older, but girls seem even 
younger than they are, to fathers, you know : 
and fathers, — I suppose fathers seem very old 
to young daughters like you. May, — too old 
to have any right to begin again a home-life 
with somebody else. But your father is not an 
old man ; he is what is called ' in the prime of 
Vol. XVII.— 36. 

May looked up into the kind eyes, without a 
word, but her fingers closed with a warm press- 
ure about the hand that held hers, and Mrs. 
Bartlett felt quite content with such an answer. 

On the last day of June of this same year, the 
Bartlett grounds were gay with tents and arches 
and all the rest of the pretty arrangements that 
go to make up a garden-party, specially when 
the garden-party is also a birthday-party. 

" Oh, look, is n't it perfectly beautiful ! " cried 
Susy Morris to Joanna, as the two went in under 
the gateway arch. " Just look, Joanna, there is 



her name, 'May,' and underneath, 'Fifteen.' — 
made of rosel)uds." 

But if the girls were delijjhted with this rose- 
bud speUing of May's name and age, how must 
they have felt when a few steps farther on they 
found themselves under a flowery tent where 
stood May and Mrs. Bartlett, distributing to each 
guest, as they welcomed each, a little nosegay 
of rosebuds tied with ribbon? It was a perfect 
day, — all blue sky and sunshine and soft breezes, 
and everywhere the scent of roses ; for the Bart- 
lett gardens and hot-houses were noted for their 
beautiful roses. The guests began to arrive at 
three o'clock ; the ])arty was to he from that 
hour until .seven. The first to arrive were the 
seminary class, Joanna and Susy, Elsie and 
Cathy Bond, with the dozen other girls who 
made up the number. Kach one was in white, 
Cathy in a brand-new white nun's veiling, with 
knots of red ribbon here and there, and a bunch 
of red roses at her girdle. .May could n't help 
thinking of the .scarlet kalmia and the night that 
it was worn, as she greeted her. Cathy, herself, 
if she did not recall the kalmia, could not but 
remember that first party, and her cheeks flushed 
until they matched her flowers, as she stood be- 
fore Mrs. Bartlett. But that lady was kindness 
itself There was not a note in her voice, nor a 
look in her eyes, that recalled anything of that 
past disagreeable experience. 

" I hope when I am a woman I .shall know 
how to behave just like that," .said Joanna ener- 
getically, as she and Susy strolled off down one 
of the garden paths, after leaving the reception 

" Just like what — like whom ? " asked Susy, 
in rather a dazed way. 

" Why, like Mrs. Bartlett. Did you see how 
nice and easy she was to Cathy, as if Cathy had 
always been nice to her, — how she took pains 
to change the pink rosebuds tied with pink rib- 
bon, for red ones tied with red ribbon, when 
she saw Cathy's dress ? I 'm sure Cathy ought 
to lox'c her now, and not be offish any more." 

" Offish ? " repeated Susy, still in her queer 
dazed little way. 

" Yes, why you kiimv how she 's acted ever 
since that night of the part}-. She did n't go 
near May to inquire how her ankle was, until 
it was nearly well, and then she went with one 

of the teachers ; and since then she has only 
been to the house once, — once in all these six 
months, — and she has had hardly anything to 
say to May since ! " 

" Well, but, Joanna. 1 tliink that 's because 
she 's been ashamed and sorry. I think both 
of them, she and May, have felt a.shamed 
and sorry, and that made them feel queer — and 
keep away from each other. I — / think that 
'way down in her heart Cathy would like to — 
to love Mrs. Bartlett, and to have her love her 
a little ; for, Joanna, did you notice Cathy's new 
dress, and did you notice her hair ? She might 
have had the skirt made long if she had chosen 
to, but she did n't ; it 's at the top of her boots, 
like ours, and instead of ])iling her hair up high, 
as she did that night, it is braided an